The Maid, the Witch and the Cruel Queen (3 page)

The heather was tough and tangled, but I followed the twisting sheep trails up into the hills. If I stepped on an adder I'd have died. But if I didn't 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 didn't 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.

“Nan!” I said.

“Young Meg,” she nodded. “Come for a cure? At this time of the morning?”

“No, I've come to warn you about Lord Scuggate,” I told her.

“I remember him when he was young. An idle and vicious lad,” she said, shaking her head. “His father spoiled him â oldest son, you see?” Suddenly she looked at me sharply. “What's he up to now?”

I rose stiffly to my feet. “It's a long story.”

“Then come inside,” she said and walked towards the cottage without looking back. “A tale is better told when you have goat's milk and oatcakes inside you â¦ with heather honey.”

Far away, the Bewcastle church clock struck five. Hounds howled. I didn't have much time.

Chapter Four
The Lord of a Burning Manor

When the clock struck twelve noon that day, Queen Mary rode up to the gates of Scuggate Manor. Her captain hammered on the great front gate. A kitchen boy tugged it open a crack and looked out.

“Where is Lord Scuggate?” the angry captain growled.

The kitchen boy wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Snnncccct! Dunno, pal! Lord Scuggate went out hunting on the moors at sunrise. He's never usually this late, though. His dinner's getting cold. He never likes to miss his dinner.”

The poor people of Bewcastle had come from the fields and the houses to stare at the queen and her soldiers and servants.

Children with runny noses threw mud at the polished breastplates of her guards...

...then ran and hid behind their mothers' skirts.

The queen turned her flat, pasty face to the captain of the guard. “What sort of greeting is this for a queen?”

The captain shrugged. “A messenger was sent to warn Lord Scuggate last night, Your Majesty.”

She looked at the barred gate and her voice rose. “So? Where is Lord Scuggate?”

Along the road ran a man, dripping water. He raised clouds of dust from his boots and stumbled when the sole of one flapped and let in stones. His breeches were torn and tangled with brambles. His cap slipped down over his sweating red face and his jerkin was muddy.

“I am Lord Scuggate, Your Majesty; sorry, Your Majesty, I was delayed.”

The queen looked at him with disgust.

“Delayed?”

“I was trying to catch a witch, Your Majesty,” he whined and mopped his face with a muddy sleeve â just wiping streaks of brown on his purple cheeks.

“Where is this witch?” the queen demanded. She wrinkled her nose as if he stank like a tramp â which he did.

“She escaped, Your Majesty. I was planning to burn her in the market place, as a sort of welcome for Your Majesty! We people of Bewcastle know how much you enjoy a good burning!” he said, flopping his hands weakly.

The captain of the guard drew his sword and strode towards Lord Scuggate.

He smacked the lord on the back with the flat of the sword. “How dare you!” he hissed.