Forest as Our Alice. She came here out of Trawden some twenty years agone, and she came as the wife of plain Dick Nutter. Then she took airs, and would have herself the wife of Master Richard Nutter--though he’s Dick to all Pendle. And of late she’s so puffed that none doubts she means to end as the wife of Richard Nutter of the Rough Lee, Esquire--if God do but give her land enough.”
“God, is it?”
Tom Peyton flung the question quickly, and Roger turned sharply at it. For a moment Margery expected trouble, thinking her cousin might resent this as an impertinence. Then she saw that she was wrong, and at once she guessed why. These two had been many a year together, and no doubt Tom Peyton was privileged to speak his mind. Roger, she saw, was smiling.
“Again I’ll not gainsay you, Tom. We’ll say, if the Devil should find for his own.”
Then he seemed to remember Margery again.
“But of your question, this Mitton was her house steward in these last years--him that used to be the pig man! And now he’s dead. And I don’t yet know what’s thought odd in that.”
They had crossed to the inner face of the ridge again, and soon the great hill was in full view to the left. Another mile brought them to a turning, and the road dipped steeply down to the inner valley. At the bottom were crossroads, and Roger stooped and pointed.
“You see the four roads meet? Opposite, the road comes from Barley, which is a mile or two beyond in a cleft of the hill. To the right of the Barley road, the high ground is called Wheathead. What’s to the left we call Goldshaw. And in Goldshaw....“
He pointed away to his left, where the ground rose steeply, and Margery, following that, saw a cluster of buildings, all in the grey stone and perched high on the naked hill.
“I told you we’d a church within the Forest,” he went on. “There it is, and we call it the Newchurch, though it’s been there many a year. Do you see it there, below the road?”
“Aye sir. With the road running past it?”
“Just so. Past it and above it. Had we been for Barley or for Wheathead, we might have used that road.”
He pointed down to the crossroads far below them.
“Do you mark the water there?”
Margery had already seen it, a shining stream that ran by the Barley road and seemed to come from the great hill behind. At the crossroads it turned sharply and then followed the road that ran to the right.
“It’s the Pendle Water,” said Roger. “We must drop to the crossroads and thence follow the Water to the right there. A mile downstream from that, and we shall be at the Rough Lee.”
“Being a house, sir?”
“Being mainly a house, but with a cottage or two lying near. That’s to be expected, since these Nutters are folk of substance. As yeomen go, Dick Nutter is the wealthiest in Pendle.”
Pie put his horse to a cautious walk down the hill to the crossroads. The others followed.
“I’m told,” he went on, “that we shall not see Alice this day. She’s away at Lathom, she and her precious son.”
“Lathom sir?”
“Aye, Lathom House--by Ormskirk, to the west beyond Preston. Where lives the Earl of Derby, the Lieutenant of this County. Alice has a kinsman who’s some secretary or clerk in milord’s Household, and it’s this fellow she visits--she and Miles.”
“Miles?”
“That’s her son--a slender reed of some twenty summers. The fellow at Lathom’s not much more than that. What’s his plaguey name? I can never hold it. How’s he named, Tom?”
“Potter sir. Matthew Potter.”
“Aye, Potter it is. And what’s the kinship? Is he cousin to Alice, or what is he?”
“Depends where you ask it sir.” Tom Peyton had a broad grin.
“How?”
“At the Rough Lee they says nephew. At the alehouse they says bastard. You take your choice.”
“Thanks. I’ve made mine and I’ll not ask yours.”
They were down the steep slope at last, and there, by the side of the clear and bubbling stream, a
“God, is it?”
Tom Peyton flung the question quickly, and Roger turned sharply at it. For a moment Margery expected trouble, thinking her cousin might resent this as an impertinence. Then she saw that she was wrong, and at once she guessed why. These two had been many a year together, and no doubt Tom Peyton was privileged to speak his mind. Roger, she saw, was smiling.
“Again I’ll not gainsay you, Tom. We’ll say, if the Devil should find for his own.”
Then he seemed to remember Margery again.
“But of your question, this Mitton was her house steward in these last years--him that used to be the pig man! And now he’s dead. And I don’t yet know what’s thought odd in that.”
They had crossed to the inner face of the ridge again, and soon the great hill was in full view to the left. Another mile brought them to a turning, and the road dipped steeply down to the inner valley. At the bottom were crossroads, and Roger stooped and pointed.
“You see the four roads meet? Opposite, the road comes from Barley, which is a mile or two beyond in a cleft of the hill. To the right of the Barley road, the high ground is called Wheathead. What’s to the left we call Goldshaw. And in Goldshaw....“
He pointed away to his left, where the ground rose steeply, and Margery, following that, saw a cluster of buildings, all in the grey stone and perched high on the naked hill.
“I told you we’d a church within the Forest,” he went on. “There it is, and we call it the Newchurch, though it’s been there many a year. Do you see it there, below the road?”
“Aye sir. With the road running past it?”
“Just so. Past it and above it. Had we been for Barley or for Wheathead, we might have used that road.”
He pointed down to the crossroads far below them.
“Do you mark the water there?”
Margery had already seen it, a shining stream that ran by the Barley road and seemed to come from the great hill behind. At the crossroads it turned sharply and then followed the road that ran to the right.
“It’s the Pendle Water,” said Roger. “We must drop to the crossroads and thence follow the Water to the right there. A mile downstream from that, and we shall be at the Rough Lee.”
“Being a house, sir?”
“Being mainly a house, but with a cottage or two lying near. That’s to be expected, since these Nutters are folk of substance. As yeomen go, Dick Nutter is the wealthiest in Pendle.”
Pie put his horse to a cautious walk down the hill to the crossroads. The others followed.
“I’m told,” he went on, “that we shall not see Alice this day. She’s away at Lathom, she and her precious son.”
“Lathom sir?”
“Aye, Lathom House--by Ormskirk, to the west beyond Preston. Where lives the Earl of Derby, the Lieutenant of this County. Alice has a kinsman who’s some secretary or clerk in milord’s Household, and it’s this fellow she visits--she and Miles.”
“Miles?”
“That’s her son--a slender reed of some twenty summers. The fellow at Lathom’s not much more than that. What’s his plaguey name? I can never hold it. How’s he named, Tom?”
“Potter sir. Matthew Potter.”
“Aye, Potter it is. And what’s the kinship? Is he cousin to Alice, or what is he?”
“Depends where you ask it sir.” Tom Peyton had a broad grin.
“How?”
“At the Rough Lee they says nephew. At the alehouse they says bastard. You take your choice.”
“Thanks. I’ve made mine and I’ll not ask yours.”
They were down the steep slope at last, and there, by the side of the clear and bubbling stream, a
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