The Daylight Gate (14 page)

Love is as strong as death.

The Knocking at the Gate

SHE WAS DRESSED
in magenta. She rode side-saddle on her copper mare. She brought a small bag. She rode through the arch into the courtyard at Read Hall scattering the servants around her.

It was night. She was late.

The men in the house heard the sound of a horse. They heard knocking at the door. A servant opened the door. They heard his cries of alarm. Roger Nowell got up to see what was the commotion. He opened the door from his small study onto the wide hall.

Alice Nutter had ridden straight in. The mare stood among the benches of the hall, pawing the stone, her ears forward and haughty.

Potts came out. Potts went back in again.

Alice Nutter dismounted and gave the reins of her horse to Roger Nowell. ‘I am ready,’ she said.

And a Bird

WHEN CHRISTOPHER SOUTHWORTH
awoke there was a girl in his bed. Not exactly in his bed; she was lying on his pillows like a pet dog.

‘I’ve always wanted to get into this room. It’s haunted, you know. All the girls know it’s haunted.’

‘Who haunts it?’

‘Two dead people. Two women. You hear them laughing and moving about up here. In the evening. And you hear the bed creak. They was sold to the Devil.’

‘I know the women,’ said Christopher. ‘They are not dead.’

‘Well then, how are they here every full-moon night?’

‘It is full moon tonight. I shall be here. Ask me tomorrow.’

The girl nodded and got up. ‘You want sex or anything? No charge. As you are a special guest.’

He shook his head. ‘I am in love with someone.’

‘That’s a pretty reply. I hope someone says that of myself some day.’

As she was going he called her back. ‘Why do they call this place the House at the Sign?’

‘It’s not the sign of the cross if that’s what you was thinking – we’re not religious here.’ She laughed. ‘On the front step you’ll see it. The pentagram. Alchemical something.’

She was gone.

He went about London that day. He engaged the horses to take himself and Alice down to Dover to where his passage to Calais waited at anchor. He felt hopeful. He did not know why.

When he got back to the House at the Sign, he looked down, and sure enough, on the great wide flagstone at the front door, there was a pentagram with a face inside it, like the face on the door. And there were runes he couldn’t read. Alice would tell him when she arrived. He hoped she would come today.

A few of the girls were about, but the place was quiet. He liked it here, set back in its pretty garden, with the river flowing along. She liked to live near water, did Alice. And a witch cannot endure water, he
thought
, and then he asked himself, ‘Do I believe in witches?’ He did not like that question. The question that followed he liked less: If Alice is a witch, how can I love her? He would love her if she were a wolf that tore out his heart. And he wondered what that said about love.

He reached the topmost stair and the door with the face regarded him. He smiled and ran his finger playfully over the mouth. The mouth was not made of wood; it was soft.

He recoiled, crying out, holding his hand. Soft?

Forcing himself to do it, he touched the mouth of the door again; it was good solid wood.

He went inside, leaving the door open, poured water into the bowl and washed his face. As he turned to look back at the door, it closed.

He refused to be afraid but he
was
afraid. He went over to the windows that opened onto the square balcony. Perched on the wooden rail was the falcon.

Christopher was delighted. He felt his body untense. Alice was near. She would never leave without her bird.

He got water. He gave it a piece of pork he had bought. The bird ate and drank. Christopher was talking to it about France, and the hawks it would meet there. Everything would be different, changed.

Then the bird lifted its foot and Christopher saw the ring. ‘
Remember me
.’

With great care he cut the ring away and held it in his hand. The bird regarded him. Alice would never have parted with this ring unless she had no other way of telling him.

‘They have taken her …’ he said.

Torture Me

THEY HAD HER
naked, on her feet, her hands strapped above her head, her back towards them. They wore hoods. They carried long sharp awls.

‘Follow the points on either side of the spine.’

The first man rammed the metal spike of the awl into Alice’s back. He twisted it out. He stood back, pleased with his demonstration. ‘That’s how you do it. Now you.’

His apprentice was hesitant. He was only a boy. He pushed his awl clumsily into the other side of Alice’s spine. Blood flowed.

‘Be firmer, boy! Try again and stab it straight down the back, one after another, an inch apart. You want to shove it right into the skin and flesh and muscle – that’s it, good and deep. Leave the buttocks. We’ll flay those.’

They bled her until her back was a mass of raised welts and running blood. She could taste blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue to stop herself crying out.

She heard a door open behind her – she couldn’t turn round because her hands and feet were tied. She heard a light pleasant voice she did not recognise. ‘Where is Christopher Southworth?’ Alice did not answer. The voice said, ‘I would like to show you a skinning.’

She was untied and blindfolded. Naked, barefoot, she was led through the lower dungeons where they kept the racks and the thumbscrews. They took off her blindfold. The iron maiden was open in front of her; an upright coffin, its inner front lid studded with six-inch iron nails. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said the voice. ‘Mainly for display.’

They walked her on. ‘We could break every bone in your body one by one. We could pull out your teeth one by one. We could tear off your fingernails – one by one. We could slowly lower you piece by piece into boiling oil. We can ram you with a poker – sometimes heated, sometimes spiked. But that sounds unkind, doesn’t it? We would prefer to treat you well.’

She heard a squealing. ‘The rat room,’ he said.

She looked through the grille into the room, if
room
it was. It was piled with rats about three feet deep, eating each other. ‘Poor things, they have nothing else to eat but each other. I would not dream of throwing you in such a place. Not all of you at once. Look, we have slots here where we can push through an arm or a leg. One limb at a time.’

Alice did not speak. A light gentle hand stroked her agonised back. She winced. The hand stopped at the top of her buttocks. ‘We’re not going to rape you.’

They passed on. Alice could hear breathing, rapid and laboured. A hand pulled back a curtain.

A man lay tied down to a bench. He was clothed but for his left leg. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. His lips were flecked with foam. He turned his head, saw and did not see Alice.

His persecutor was bending over him absorbed in his work. He had already removed the skin from the man’s upper thigh and was intent on pulling it carefully over his knee. Alice could see the large thigh muscle pulsing with pain. The torturer made a quick incision. The man cried out and fainted as the torturer pulled the stocking of skin down the lower leg towards the foot.

‘Finish that leg, leave the other till tomorrow,’ said the voice. ‘Oh, and wake him up.’

A boy stepped forward with a bucket of water and
flung
it in the man’s unconscious face. He opened his eyes.

Alice was led away to a furnished room. She was given wine. She refused it. She was told to bend over. She saw a sturdy pair of legs, feet planted apart. Her arms were pulled over her head and held tightly. She heard a swish. The man with the pleasant voice began to thrash her buttocks. ‘All we want to know is where he is.’

When she came to she was back in her cell lying face down. She did not know whether it was day or night, or how many days or nights had passed. There was water and food put out for her. She drank but did not eat.

Shadows

IT WAS LATE
. Christopher Southworth was watching the moon rise. The bird was with him. He wanted to send something to Alice to tell her that he would come. ‘You will go to her, won’t you?’ he said to the bird that sat perched and silent.

As the full moon shone into the chamber behind him, he heard laughter. He looked round and into the room. There was Alice seated at the table with Elizabeth Southern. They were about to carve a chicken. His heart leapt. He ran through the door. There was no one there.

He stood looking around, passed his hand over his face, took a drink. He went back outside.

The moment he was out of the room again he heard music. He looked back; Alice and Elizabeth were dancing together. This time he did not rush in,
he
watched them. The room was exactly as he knew it, but there were flowers, and everything seemed pretty and vital, not dusty and abandoned. Alice kissed Elizabeth. He felt himself dizzy with jealousy. They moved towards the bed. Alice touched Elizabeth’s neck.

He could not contain himself. He jumped into the room. It was empty.

He sat on the bed, his head in his hands.

It was then that he heard a step on the stair. ‘Let me in, quick!’

He recognised the girl’s voice. He opened the door. She slipped inside. ‘I come to warn you. There’s half a dozen men downstairs asking questions. I’d get gone if I was you. I’ll pretty them up, kiss them and the like. That’ll give you a few minutes.’

He nodded and squeezed her hand. She left. He put on his boots and jacket and slung his flasks of water and wine either side of his body. He stuffed the cheese and bread he had bought into his bag and put out the candle on the table. The moon was bright enough to light up everything.

He looked out of the front window of the room. Yes. There were men in the yard in front of the house talking to some of the women.

He went out onto the disused balcony. He could climb up on the roof. He fished in his pocket and
took
out a French coin. He held it in the palm of his hand and the bird took it. ‘Tell her I will come,’ he said.

Understanding him, the falcon flew up to the roof and, finding its north, opened its powerful wings and was gone.

No More

OLD DEMDIKE WAS
dying. She had a fever. She had seen no sunlight for three months. She had lived on dirty water, foul bread and bloated rats.

The gaoler who brought Alice her food and drink told her about Demdike. ‘I would like to see her,’ said Alice. ‘I will pay.’

That night the gaoler came with his dripping flare and led Alice from her upper cell to the Well Dungeon. He said nothing. He opened the door. He fixed the flare lit with pig-fat to the iron ring in the wall. Then he locked Alice in.

At first she could not see. Then she became aware of a heap of bodies, continuous, undistinguishable, lying in heaps for warmth. Chattox, Nance Redfern, Jem Device, Elizabeth Device. Names that meant
nothing
. The occupants of those names had vacated them.

She leaned against the wall to steady herself against the stench and the filth. As her eyes got used to the malicious dark, she saw a woman standing quite still under light so little it was like a memory of light.

Alice made her way over the motionless bodies. The statue-woman was Jane Southworth. She was holding a prayer book so saturated with damp that it was more of a block than a book. She did not recognise Alice. Her eyes were empty. Alice put her hand on her thin shoulder but Jane brushed it away and turned back to her work of looking up towards the light.

Coughing. Alice heard coughing, not a chest cough but a cough from so deep in the lungs it took the whole body with it. Demdike stirred from the mound of bodies, wrenched her guts and spat. She pulled herself up onto her knees.

Alice went to her. The smell was overpowering. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘Elizabeth.’

Old Demdike looked up. She was almost blind but she could hear. ‘He’s coming for me, Alice,’ she said. ‘Has he sent you?’

‘No one is coming for you,’ said Alice. ‘Drink this.’

She had brought a vial of liquid. Old Demdike
stuck
out her tongue like a baby. Alice poured the liquid into her mouth. Demdike swallowed and shook her head. ‘You can’t save me now, Alice, too late.’

Yet the potion had revived her. Alice drew her to the door of the cell and put down a sack the gaoler had given her. It covered the filth. She held the wasted sick body in her arms.

‘Do you remember?’ said Elizabeth.

Alice remembered. About half a year after the night at the house in Vauxhall, she had heard that Elizabeth had the pox. She was with the lepers in the ruins of the old priory outside the city walls, at Bishopsgate.

It was a desolate place. A few figures roamed about, talking aloud, raving at the sky. Most were sitting or lying around low fires, too sick to move. Piles of bones and offal surrounded the separate encampments and around those piles dogs and cats and rats scavenged, only kept off by the smoky fires. When a man was too far gone in disease to light a fire the rats gnawed him where he lay.