Two old men were standing in the doorway, each holding a pot of ale. They stepped aside briskly to allow us through, the alarm on their faces probably not only caused by the sight of the two fearsome wolfhounds. They could tell our trade by our clothes and staffs.
Inside, the tavern was empty but the tabletops were clean and a welcoming fire blazed in the grate. Arkwright walked to the bar and rapped loudly on the wooden counter. We heard someone coming up the steps and a rotund, jovial-looking man in a clean apron came through the open doorway to our right.
I saw him glance warily at the dogs and give Arkwright a quick up and down, but then his initial uneasy smile settled into the businesslike welcome of an experienced host. “Good day to you, good sirs,” he said. “What can I offer you? Accommodation, a meal, or simply two tankards of my very best ale?”
“We’ll take two rooms, landlord, and an evening meal—hot pot, if you have it. In the meantime we’ll sit over there in the corner by the fire and start with a caudle.”
The landlord bowed and hurried away. I took my seat opposite Arkwright, wondering what was going on. On the very rare occasions Mr. Gregory and I stayed in a tavern, we shared a room; he got the bed while I slept on the floor. Arkwright had ordered us a room each.
“What’s a caudle?” I asked.
“It’s something to cheer you up on a cold, damp late-autumn evening. A hot, spicy mixture of wine and gruel. Just the thing to sharpen our appetites for the hot pot.”
I worried a bit when he said the word wine. The fight with the soldiers had shown me again how violent and angry Arkwright could become with wine inside him, and I feared him when he was like that. I’d hoped that he had started to curb his drinking recently, but perhaps the episode with the press-gang had given him a taste for it.
I tried to remain positive about the situation, though, and sleeping in the tavern was certainly better than spending the night under a hedge or in a drafty barn—though I knew there were often very good reasons for the things John Gregory did. For one thing, he would have expected us to fast before facing the dark, and for another, he didn’t like people knowing his business. He would have approached one of the three potential lairs of Morwena without first passing through the village. In a small place such as this gossip spread like wildfire. Now we had taken rooms for the night, soon everyone in Coniston would know that a spook and his apprentice were here. And sometimes witches had allies among the community; I’d learned that in Pendle. Even a malevolent water witch such as Morwena might have informants.
For a while I struggled with myself, torn between two options: say nothing to Arkwright and suffer the consequences; or tell him my fears and risk a beating or at least a tongue-lashing. My sense of duty finally won.
“Mr. Arkwright,” I began, keeping my voice low in case the landlord returned and overheard us, “do you think it’s wise for us to sit here so publicly? Morwena might have supporters in the area.”
Arkwright smiled grimly. “Stop your mothering, Master Ward. Do you see any spies about? Remember, when you’re with me, you do things my way, and I need some rest and refreshment if I’m to face Morwena. Count yourself lucky that you’ll have a full belly and a featherbed tonight. Mr. Gregory never treats his apprentices so well.”
Perhaps Arkwright was right. There was no one about and we both deserved a good meal and rest after two nights camped out in the hermit’s cave. I was sure Mr. Gregory would have insisted we fast before facing Morwena, but I decided not to argue with Arkwright anymore—especially if he was soon to have some wine in him. I settled back in my seat, stopped worrying, and enjoyed my caudle.
But soon the tavern began to fill, and by the time our steaming hot pots arrived, a group of farmers were downing mugs of ale, and most of the tables were full of lively, genial people, joking, laughing, and filling their bellies. We got a few suspicious glances and I sensed that some people were talking about us. A few customers even turned back in the doorway on catching sight of us. Maybe they were just nervous of us or perhaps it was something more sinister.
Then things started to go wrong. Arkwright ordered a tankard of the landlord’s strongest ale. He downed it in seconds and then bought another, and another. With each drink his voice became louder and his words more slurred. When he went to the bar for his seventh pint, he stumbled against someone’s table, spilling the drinks and earning himself some angry looks. I sat trying not to draw attention to myself, but Arkwright seemed to have no such thoughts. At the bar he was telling the story to anyone who’d listen of how he’d defeated the Coniston Ripper.
After a while he staggered back to our table, carrying his eighth pint. He drank it quickly, then burped loudly, drawing more glances.
“Mr. Arkwright,” I said, “do you think we ought to go to bed now? We’ve got a busy day tomorrow and it’s getting late.”
“There he goes again,” said Arkwright loudly so that he soon had the audience he wanted. “When will my apprentice learn that it’s me who gives the orders, not the other way round. I’ll go to bed when I’m good and ready, Master Ward, and not before,” he snarled.
Humiliated, I hung my head. What more could I say? I thought my new master was making a big mistake getting so drunk when we had to face Morwena in the morning, but like he said, I was only the apprentice and had to obey orders.
“Happen the boy’s right, though,” said the landlord, coming over to clear our table. “I don’t like to turn away paying customers but you’ve had a few too many, Bill, and you’ll need your wits about you if you’re really going to hunt Morwena.”
I was shocked. I didn’t realize my master had told the landlord what we were planning. Who else had he told while he was at the bar?
Arkwright banged his fist loudly on the table. “Are you telling me I can’t handle my ale?” he shouted.
Suddenly the room was silent as everyone turned to look at us.
“No, Bill,” said the landlord amiably, clearly experienced in dealing with drunkards. “How about you come back tomorrow night when you’ve sorted out Morwena and you can drink as much as you like—on the house.”
At the mention of Morwena, a low whispering started among the other customers.
“Right. You’ve got yourself a deal,” said Arkwright, to my relief. “Master Ward, it’s an early night for us.”
I led the way to our rooms with the dogs, and he stumbled behind us up the stairs. But as I entered my room, he stepped in, too, and closed the door, leaving the dogs outside. “What do you think of your room?” he slurred.
I looked about me. The bed looked inviting, and everything, including the curtains, looked clean and well cared for. The candle beside the bed was beeswax rather than smelly tallow.
“Looks comfortable,” I said. But then I noticed the large mirror on the dressing table to my left. “Should I cover that with a sheet?” I asked.
“No need. We’re not dealing with your Pendle witches now,” Arkwright said, shaking his head. “No, no, no,” he hiccupped. “This is something different. Very different, mark my words. A water witch can’t use a mirror to spy on folk. Not even Morwena can do that. Anyway, Master Ward, be grateful. Mr. Gregory never booked me a room as comfortable as this—not in all the five years I was his apprentice. But don’t get too snug now. Don’t get yourself as snug as a little, little bug in a rug. Let us give ourselves a couple of hours’ rest, but when the church clock chimes midnight, we’re off a-hunting. A-hunting we will go! Go left from the door of your room and down the back steps. I’ll meet you at the outer door. Softly, softly does it!”
With those words Arkwright staggered out, closing the door behind him, but I could hear him singing, “A-hunting we will go,” as he struggled drunkenly to unlock his own door. So, without getting undressed, I lay down on the bed. I might be a sound sleeper, but I was good at knowing the time, even when asleep, and if I put my mind to it, I’d wake up just before the bells began to chime.
CHAPTER XVI
Tr
ail of Blood
I was tired after our long walk to Coniston and slept soundly for the two hours, but I woke up suddenly just before the church bell began to peal. Instinctively I knew that it was midnight but I counted out the chimes just to be certain.
However, when I reached the outer door, Arkwright wasn’t there. I checked outside, then went back to his room. I paused outside and listened: I could hear the sound of snoring. I rapped softly on the door, and when there was no answer, eased it open slowly. Claw and Tooth gave simultaneous low growls as I stepped into the room but then their tails began to wag.
Arkwright was lying on the bed, fully clothed. His mouth was wide open and he was snoring very loudly.
“Mr. Arkwright,” I said close to his ear. “Mr. Arkwright, sir, it’s time to get up.”
I called his name several more times but to no avail. Finally I shook him by the shoulder, and he sat up very suddenly, his eyes wide, face twisted with anger. At first I thought he was going to hit me so I spoke quickly.
“You asked me to meet you outside at midnight but it’s well after that now. . . .”
I saw understanding flicker into his eyes; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and came unsteadily to his feet.
There were two lanterns on the bedside table and he lit both and handed one to me. Then he staggered out of his room and down the steps, clutching his head and groaning a little. He led the way through the backyard onto the moonlit slope beyond. I glanced up at the rear of the tavern; all the upstairs windows were in darkness but the downstairs ones still cast bright shafts of light onto the ground. From within I could hear raucous voices and someone singing tunelessly.
The clouds had dissipated and the air was crisp and sharp. The two dogs followed at our heels, their eyes gleaming with excitement. It was a steady climb up the southern slopes of the Old Man until snow crunched under our feet. It wasn’t very deep and the surface was just starting to freeze.
Once we reached the shore of Goat’s Water, Arkwright came to a halt. The small lake had been well-named: A mountain goat would have been far more at home on its steep banks and overhanging crags than a human. The near shore was dotted with large boulders, making access difficult. But Arkwright had not stopped to look at the view. To my surprise, he bent forward very suddenly and began to vomit violently, gushing ale and hot pot onto the ground. I turned my back on him and walked away, my stomach heaving. He was ill for some time but then the retching stopped and I heard him sucking in big breaths of night air.
“Do you feel well, Master Ward?” he asked, tottering toward me.
I nodded. He was still breathing very heavily and there was a film of sweat on his brow.
“That hot pot must have been off. I’ll be giving the landlord a piece of my mind in the morning, make no mistake about that!”
Arkwright took another deep breath and wiped his forehead and mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t feel too well. I think I need to rest for a little while,” he said.
We found a boulder close by for him to rest against and sat together in near silence, save for his occasional groans and the odd whimper from the dogs.
After ten minutes I asked if he felt a little better. He nodded and tried to stand, but his legs seemed to buckle beneath him and he sat down again heavily.
“Should I go on alone, Mr. Arkwright?” I suggested. “I don’t think you’re well enough to search round here, let alone make it all the way to Coniston Water.”
“Nay, lad, you can’t go off alone. Whatever would Mr. Gregory say with Morwena in our midst. Another five minutes and I’ll be right as rain.”
But in another five minutes he was throwing up the last of the ale and hot pot and it was clear that he wasn’t fit to hunt for Morwena that night.
“Mr. Arkwright,” I said, “I think I’d better leave you here and take a look round myself—or we could go back to the inn and search for Morwena tomorrow night.”
“We’ve got to do it tonight,” Arkwright said. “I want to get back to the mill as soon as possible. I’ve been away too long as it is.”
“Well, let me search round Coniston Water, then,” I said. “I’ll take one of the dogs with me. I’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly he agreed. “All right. You win. I’m not well enough to make it to Coniston Water tonight. You head back the way we came toward the northwest of the lake and search there. Keep your lantern shielded so you won’t draw any unwelcome attention. If you see Morwena—or indeed anyone else acting suspiciously—don’t take any chances. Just follow them at a distance. Beware of that bloodeye, and just try to find out where they go to ground. Apart from that, do nothing. Just watch and report back to me here.
“If I feel better, I’ll have a look around here; then, later, we can check out Lever’s Water together. And take the bitch with you,” he commanded. “It’ll give you a better chance if you run into trouble. Reckon you can find your way back to Coniston Water from here?”
I nodded. The map was fixed inside my head.
“Right. Good luck and I’ll see you back here.”
Without waiting for a reply, he bent and whispered into Claw’s ear, then patted her three times. After pulling the wooden shutters across the lantern, I headed for Coniston Water, Claw walking obediently at my side. I’d only gone a few steps when I heard Arkwright retching and groaning again. I was sure there was nothing wrong with the hot pot. The ale must have been very strong and he’d downed it far too quickly.
So with Claw at my side, I headed toward Coniston Water and the moon, which was climbing above the trees.
As I walked down the hill, retracing my steps toward the village, an eerie cry came from directly ahead. I waited, tense and alert, sensing danger. There was something familiar about the sound. It could well be some sort of warning cry or signal. But then the strange call came again, almost directly overhead, and suddenly I remembered that I’d heard it before: on the marsh just minutes before I met Morwena and she’d dragged me into the slime. Immediately I glimpsed something flying back toward Goat’s Water.
Without doubt it was some sort of bird, and I resolved to ask Arkwright about it just as soon as I got the chance. It might be linked to the water witch. Some witches used either blood or bone magic, but others used familiars: creatures that became their eyes and ears and did their bidding. Maybe the strange bird was Morwena’s?
Eventually I came to the village and passed quickly through its deserted streets, Claw padding at my heels. Just a few lights gleamed at upper windows. Once beyond the last house, I skirted the lake to the north shore, where I settled down within the shelter of some trees with a clear view of the shore, the lake beyond gleaming silver in the moonlight.
Time passed slowly, and although Claw and I searched high and low, I neither saw nor heard anything of note. I began to think about Alice, wondering what she was doing and whether she was missing me as much as I missed her. I thought about my master, John Gregory, too. Was he safely tucked up in his bed at Chipenden or out in the dark on spook’s business like me?
Finally I decided to return to Goat’s Water and Mr. Arkwright. There was no sign of Morwena here.
The climb seemed harder this time, and although the path gradually leveled out, it was still some way around the Old Man. Soon I was crunching across snow again, following our footprints toward the lake. At last I came within view of the place where I’d left Arkwright. I was moving as quietly as possible so as not to attract the attention of anyone or anything that might be lurking on the fells, but suddenly, to my dismay, Claw started to howl and then bounded ahead of me.
It took me some time to catch up with her, and I needed my staff to help me keep my feet on the slippery surface. As I drew closer, I pulled back the shutters on my lantern so that I could see better.
Immediately my heart sank, my throat tightened with anguish and I began to tremble at the horrific sight before me. It seemed that Arkwright and Tooth had found Morwena. Or rather, she had found them. Tooth w
as dead, his body lying on the bloodstained snow. His throat had been ripped out. There were footprints around him—something with talons and webbed feet; something that had walked upright. There was another wide trail of blood leading to the lakeshore. While Claw whined with grief for her dead mate, I gripped my staff tightly, numb with shock, and followed that trail right to the water’s edge.
The lantern illuminated Arkwright’s staff at the edge of the lake; one of his boots was half in, half out of the water. The leather was ripped and it looked as if it had been torn from his foot.
At first I had no doubt what had happened: Morwena had killed Tooth and then hooked Arkwright and dragged him into the water. Then I noticed more webbed prints farther back. Lots of them. More than one water witch had been here. If Arkwright had encountered Morwena, she hadn’t been alone. Had she attacked from the water while the others closed in from behind, giving Arkwright no chance of escape?
My heart lurched with fear. She could be submerged under the lake, watching me. There might be lots of witches, just waiting for their chance to attack. At any moment they might erupt from its calm surface, and I would suffer the same fate.
Claw began to howl, that tormented sound echoing back from the high crag above. In a panic I ran just as fast as I could. As each footstep carried me to safety, the howls of the dog became fainter and fainter. At one point I was afraid she might suffer the same fate as her mate. So I paused and whistled for her. I tried three times but got no response, so I pressed on toward the tavern.
Hungover as he was, Arkwright would have had little chance of defending himself. He’d been an experienced and successful spook, but he’d made a big mistake in drinking so heavily. A mistake that had cost him his life.
I reached the safety of the tavern and locked myself in my room, unsure what else to do. As soon as it was light, I intended to head back to Chipenden and tell the Spook what had happened. I couldn’t honestly say that I’d liked Arkwright, but I was upset and shaken by the manner of his death. He’d been a good spook and would have taught me lots of useful—maybe vital—things. For all his bullying and drunken ways he’d been a powerful enemy of the dark and the County would be the worse for his passing.