Michael Stewart - Ill Will

‘Why?’

‘They just did.’

‘They must have reasons?’

‘People talk through me.’

‘What people?’

‘Dead people.’

‘Then you are a witch.’

I took the flask of water from inside my coat and handed it to her.

‘Here, drink this.’

She pulled out the cork and supped from it.

‘Why did you stop them?’

‘I don’t like whips.’

She handed the flask back.

‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘They’ll come back. With more. What you did – it will not go unpunished.’

‘Come,’ I said. ‘I know a place we can hide till dawn. Then we can head over the moors, away from this town.’

I cleaned the blade of the axe, wrapped it in a coarse rag, and tucked it down the back of my breeches. I found the knife further on and stashed that in my surtout.

‘Where are you heading?’

‘West.’

‘Can I come?’

‘You can come as far as you need to get away from those men. But no further.’

The last thing I needed was a travelling companion to slow me down.

I took her hand and we walked out of the barn. I could hear some commotion in the distance. Then I heard voices.

‘It’s this way!’ someone shouted.

They were coming for us already. I held onto the girl’s hand harder and together we ran up the lane and into the wood. I led us through a thicket and over brambles until we came to a tree that we could easily climb. It was close to the elm where I stashed my pennies. I reached for the nearest branch and used it to steady me as I wedged my foot into a nook. I levered myself up into the tree, then pulled the girl close to where I was crouched. I held her tight and told her to shush. I heard voices and the snapping of twigs. We were being followed by a mob armed with torches, pitchforks, scythes, knives and pickaxe handles. I could see their silhouettes and the orange flames. The men searched the wood.

‘Must be here somewhere,’ someone said. ‘Can’t have got far.’

‘I’ll lynch the pair of them.’

‘Watch out. He’s got an axe.’

Three men approached our tree. I could make out the tops of their heads from where I was crouched. One was the man with yellow hair. He leaned against the trunk immediately below us. I held my breath and put my hand over the girl’s mouth. She was rigid with fear. I could feel her heart beat against my belly. I clung onto her. The men were panting.

‘Stop a minute, I need to get my breath.’

‘Which way?’ the yellow-haired man said.

‘They must be here somewhere.’

‘Is Dick all right?’

‘I don’t know,’ the yellow-haired man said. ‘He’s lost a hand.’

‘They’ll lose more than a hand when I get hold of them,’ another said. I recognised the voice: it was the farmer, Dan Taylor. ‘No one does that to my son and lives to tell the tale.’

‘Might have climbed a tree.’

‘Lift that torch up.’

A man came over to where we stood, torch in hand. My surtout was a dark brown colour and the girl was tucked inside. I ducked my head behind a branch as the light from the torch came closer. As they raised it I held my breath again.

‘I can’t see anything.’

‘Lift it higher.’

I could feel the girl’s heartbeat quicken. I could feel beads of sweat trickle down my back.

‘What’s that?’

‘Where?’

‘Those are eyes.’

I clenched my eyes closed. I stayed as still as a statue.

‘There. See?’

‘It’s only an owl, you fool.’

‘I thought for a moment . . .’

‘Ha!’

‘You’ve got to admit, the girl’s eyes are a bit like that.’

‘Come on, they must be further in.’

The men went deeper into the forest. I waited until the lights from their torches diminished and the night was black again, and took a deep breath. Thank God for my friend the owl, who had returned to the wood at just the right time. I whispered to the girl, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

We climbed down. I’d been tensing every muscle of my body and only now was I aware of it. I retrieved the sack of coins from the hollow in the tree and I took the girl to the makeshift cave. There was just a sliver of moon to guide us, obscured by mist. I put the bag of coins in my pocket.

As my heartbeat slowed, the reality of the situation struck me, and I kicked myself. I was still nine shillings short of my target. Why had I acted so rashly? For a girl I barely knew? Now I had an angry mob baying for my blood.

‘What’s your name?’ I said in the dark.

‘Emily. What’s yours?’

‘I told you the other night: William Lee.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Get the fuck out of here.’

The moon was cloaked by cloud and the sky was black. Further protection, I thought. Their torches would burn out soon, and they wouldn’t be able to see anything without them. We managed to find our way to the cave, stumbling here and there as we did. I reckoned that we were safe here until dawn. It was far enough from the farm, and they’d never find us in the dark, even with torches, as they wouldn’t think to look around these parts. The cave was in a steep dip and well hidden. I got a fire going, knowing that it couldn’t be seen from any angle. Even so, I burned the flaights rather than the woodpile, as they burned with a lower flame. I passed her the flask again.

‘Here, drink.’

‘Have you got anything to eat?’

‘You’ll have to wait till morning.’

‘I’m starving.’

‘You’ll last. Let me have a look at the wound.’

She turned her back to me and I examined it in the light of the fire. It had ripped deep into her flesh. The wound would heal but it might get infected. I wondered if it needed stitching. It was too dark for me to make a poultice but I knew where there were some soothing herbs and I’d fix her a remedy in the morning. She was shivering. I gave her the shirt off my back. One of Hindley’s hand-me-downs.

‘Here, put this on.’

She took hold of it as though it were something dead and festering.

‘It fucking stinks.’

‘Put it on.’

She did. It drowned her but I figured it would keep her warm. Her chest was as flat as an oatcake. I thought about your chest at her age, already budding with womanhood. I put my rough surtout on, itching from the coarse stitching. I felt it scratch at my shoulders.

‘You could show some gratitude,’ I said.

‘Eh?’

‘You know, such as, thanks, William.’

‘What for? A stinking shirt?’

‘I saved you from a braying back there. Perhaps worse.’

I waited for a response but there was none. I watched the flaights glow in the fire, giving off hardly any flame.

‘We’ll be safe here for now, but we’ll have to be on our way first thing. Get your head down. You need to sleep.’

‘Do you think that man will die?’ she said.

‘Which man?’

I don’t know why I asked because I knew full well which man she was talking about.

‘The man whose hand you cut off. The farmer’s son. Dick.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I hope he bleeds to death. My only regret is that I won’t be there to watch.’

I hoped so too, Cathy. I took the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Where you heading?’

‘I told you: west.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘I’ve never been west. Been east lots of times. York mostly. And south. Went to London with my dad. They had a big fire there, you know, a hundred years ago. Burned most of it down. My dad told me all about it. Said it was started when a baker forgot to put out his oven. Took them forty years to build it back again.’