said.
âAll carrying crosses,â Sir James Marley added.
âAnd singing hymns,â Lord Scuggate put in. âThe queen will love that!â
âWould the town people do it?â Father Walton asked, and his bald head shone yellow in the light of the torches.
âThey will if we promise them a few barrels of beer!â Lord Scuggate chuckled.
The men laughed, and held out their wine cups for me to fill.
âOld Nan doesnât drink,â Father Walton said.
Lord Scuggate sighed.
âWhoâs Old Nan?â Sir James asked as he cleaned his fingernails with his knife.
âA wise woman who lives out at Butterburn in the hills,â Lord Scuggate snapped. âSome say she is a witch. But the truth is she just mixes herbs and cures made from the plants on the moors. I use them myself,â he said. âBut you wouldnât get her into a church or singing hymns.â
âPerfect!â Sir James cried and waved his knife. âQueen Mary likes to see her sort burned.â
âSo?â Lord Scuggate growled.
âSo ⦠burn her! Tomorrow at noon in the market square. Queen Mary will thank you for the rest of her blood-soaked life!â
âPerfect!â Lord Scuggate chuckled. âTomorrow at dawn we find Old Nan.â
âShe could be out on the moors, collecting herbs at this time of the year,â the priest reminded him.
âWeâll track her down. Thatâs what my hunting dogs are for,â he said, and threw a scrap of meat to the snapping hounds on the floor.
Lord Scuggate raised his wine cup and clashed it against the raised cups of the other two.
âHereâs to good Queen Mary ⦠and a death to all her enemies â especially Old Nan!â
Chapter Three
The Cottage in the Heather
I cleared the tables after their lordships had staggered to their beds. Then I crept back down to the main hall and found the two shaggy hounds asleep by the guttering fire.
I fed them with plates of meat till they could eat no more. They groaned, rolled over and slept.
But I couldnât sleep. I had work to do.
I took a black woollen cloak from the stables and slipped out into the cool light of the quarter moon. Rats scuttered out of my way as I padded across the yard in my bare feet and on to the dusty road.
The church clock creaked and chimed one. Dogs barked at me but no one lit a candle or looked to see who was passing their door. At the edge of the town I turned off the road and on to the trails that led over the moor to Butterburn.
The heather was tough and tangled, but I followed the twisting sheep trails up into the hills. If I stepped on an adder Iâd have died. But if I didnât go on then poor Old Nan would die.
After half an hour, I saw her tiny cottage of tumbled stone with a roof of heather.
Everything was silent. I didnât want to disturb her. I sank onto the heather, pulled the cloak over me and slept.
When the sun rose three hours later, I woke with a start. A woman was looking down at me. She was probably about forty years old but the harsh life had turned her hair grey and wrinkled her skin dry like tree bark.
âNan!â I said.
âYoung Meg,â she nodded. âCome for a cure? At this time of the morning?â
âNo, Iâve come to warn you about Lord Scuggate,â I told her.
âI remember him when he was young. An idle and vicious lad,â she said, shaking her head. âHis father spoiled him â oldest son, you see?â Suddenly she looked at me sharply. âWhatâs he up to now?â
I rose stiffly to my feet. âItâs a long story.â
âThen come inside,â she said and walked towards the cottage without looking back. âA tale is better told when you have goatâs milk and oatcakes inside you ⦠with heather honey.â
Far away, the Bewcastle church clock struck five. Hounds howled. I didnât have much