Joseph Delaney - The Spook’s nightmare

‘Not yet, Tom. Lizzie wants to hurt him badly first. After she’s had her fun, then it’ll be the buggane’s turn.’

‘What I can’t understand is why she’s not killed me already – or put me in a cell to feed the buggane. Why risk having a spook’s apprentice around?’

‘Ain’t hurt you yet because I begged her not to,’ said Alice. ‘And she ain’t hurt me because she really means what she said about me uniting the Pendle clans one day. She thinks she can win me over to the dark. She can’t, but it don’t do no harm to let her think I’m moving her way. That’s the only reason you’re still alive, Tom. I also asked her to let the dogs go – or have ’em fed at least. She wouldn’t hear of it though. They must be starving by now.’

I nodded sadly. Claw, Blood and Bone had suffered cruelly, but at least, unlike some of the other dogs, they were still alive. I’d have to do something about them – and soon.

The following morning I passed Stanton on the stairs. He thrust a guest list under my nose. There were a lot of names.

‘These are the ones we’ve sent invitations to – all important people, but a lot of them won’t come. They see Bony Lizzie as a murderess and a witch and will already be making their own plans to deal with her – maybe even raising some sort of military force to move against the keep. Of course, they can’t do much until the Parliament meets next week.

‘But there are those who have agreed to attend. Why, I don’t know,’ the commander went on, shaking his head, ‘but some – especially those who don’t get their own way at the Tynwald – see her as a route to power. Some are simply coming along to assess the danger she represents. If the meeting turns against her, I might just use the uproar to kill her there and then. Now, tell me – what’s the best way to kill a witch, lad?’

‘A silver-alloy blade through the heart would be the most effective,’ I told him. ‘A spook’s staff has one, but Lizzie’s locked away mine and my master’s. Any blade right through the heart might do the trick though – at least for a while…’

I didn’t like to tell him that he would have to cut out her heart afterwards – otherwise we’d be facing a dead and possibly even more dangerous Bony Lizzie… But first things first, I thought. Guests started to arrive at the keep just after sunset. They were greeted at the gate and escorted to the great hall. Mostly they were men, alone or in groups, but there were a few couples too.

The hall was large and spectacular, its high roof supported on heavy wooden beams arranged in a sequence of triangles such as you found in the very largest County churches. Although constructed on a smaller scale, it reminded me of the interior of Priestown Cathedral. On the walls, rich tapestries depicted scenes from the island’s history: there were longboats and fierce-looking men with horned helmets; vessels landing on rocky shores; battles, with houses burning and fields strewn with the dead. Dozens of torches lined the walls to show them off.

Gradually the room began to echo with the low buzz of conversation as servants brought in trays of wine and offered a glass to each guest. The tables were arranged in parallel rows; the head table, where Lizzie would take her place, faced them. To our surprise, Alice and I were seated immediately to the left of the witch’s chair, with Daniel Stanton positioned on her right. Yeomen armed with spears stood guard along the wall at the back.

Once all the guests had arrived, another group of yeomen brought in the prisoners and led them to the table right at the back, near the door. I saw that Adriana was amongst them.

Only then did Lizzie enter the room and walk slowly to her place at the head table. The conversation died away as the guests followed her progress. She had clearly raided the wardrobe of Lord Barrule’s dead wife; this time she’d helped herself to jewels as well: her fingers were adorned with gold rings, her wrists with gleaming slender bracelets, and set within her hair, which was now clean and lustrous, was a spectacular diamond tiara.

When she reached her chair, Lizzie halted and swept the room with her eyes. Then she gave a smile, but there was no warmth in it. It was the cruel, gloating smile of someone very confident of her power; the sadistic smirk of a bully about to torment her helpless victims.

‘Eat your fill!’ she commanded. ‘We’ll dine first and talk later.’

Then, without further ado, waiters scurried into the room with trays of choice cuts of meat. The cooks had worked hard and it truly was a feast fit for a queen. But the guests all ate in silence, merely nibbling at their food, and you could sense the fear and unease that now gripped them. They knew what Lizzie was capable of – how she’d slain the powerful Lord Barrule and killed yeomen from a distance. She’d even bested a spook.

At last, when the tables had been cleared and everyone’s glass filled again, Stanton rose to his feet and called out for silence. An expectant hush fell as Bony Lizzie stood and faced her nervous guests.

She stared at them for a long time without speaking, pursing her red-painted lips. Suddenly I felt a chill in the air. She was using something from the dark already.

‘The old ways won’t do any longer!’ she cried. ‘It’s time for change!’

There was real authority in her voice: this was no longer the mud-splattered Lizzie who had taken refuge with us in the buggane’s tunnels – though she still twisted her mouth and spoke in a heavy Pendle accent.

‘You’ve enemies across the sea to the east. Captured the County, they have, and now they’ll be looking this way. They’ll want to seize your land and make slaves of you all, there’s little doubt about that. This is no time for dithering; no time for empty talk. A parliament ain’t needed now. What good is a talking-shop when we need action? Want a strong single voice, you do. Need a different type of rule. It’s me you need! I’ll be your queen. I’ll protect you. Support me and keep your freedom. It’s your choice.’

Putting emphasis on the word ‘your’, she extended her left arm and brought it in a slow arc from left to right, pointing her index finger at her audience. The rings on her fingers and the diamonds in the tiara sparkled. She was indeed acting like a queen now – regal, powerful and commanding. She was telling these people that they had but one choice, and that was to obey her.

There was a low grumble of dissent – though one or two men smiled and nodded. Did they actually see her as a future leader, one who would drag them along in her wake?

Lizzie ignored the mutters. ‘It’s a different life for everyone here now. Let the prisoners go, I have. They were Lord Barrule’s prisoners, not mine. His time is over, so I’ve released them and now the cells are empty – except for the spook, of course. But others will join him in my dungeons – those who oppose me.’

This time the mutters became a rumble, then a roar of disapproval.

‘You’re either with me or against me!’ Lizzie’s voice cut through the uproar.

In response, a man rose to his feet; next to him was a very finely dressed woman with silver-grey hair, her gown rivalling that of Lizzie’s. An expression of alarm on her face, his wife grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back into his seat. But he shrugged her off and strode forward to stand directly before the high table.

Florid of face and slightly overweight, he looked prosperous and commanding. But here he was dealing with something beyond his experience.

He pointed a finger at Lizzie and opened his mouth twice before any words came out. His hands were shaking and his forehead glistened with sweat. ‘You are a stranger to our island,’ he told her in a quavering voice, ‘an interloper, a refugee – and a witch to boot! How dare you stand before us and assume such a title? What right have you to declare yourself our sovereign?’