The Hellion Read online

  About the Author

  Harriet Young is based in Cheshire and lives with her husband and cats.

  After studying law at the University of Manchester and deciding there was no way on earth she would ever be a lawyer, Harriet worked in various jobs before retraining as a primary school teacher in 2016, where she loved teaching young children to read and share her passion for books. Harriet is now a content creation specialist, and spends her days writing and creating imagery.

  Harriet has an ardent interest in history, and prefers to read and write books with an historical grounding. Mainly a thriller writer, Harriet’s books are gripping, tense and sometimes terrifying. She loves to write about those times in history when the horrifying has happened – events you can’t believe actually took place.

  As well as writing, Harriet loves photography and reading, and combines the two on her Instagram account: @thesenovelthoughts

  The Hellion

  Harriet Young

  This edition first published in 2021

  Unbound

  TC Group, Level 1, Devonshire House, One Mayfair Place

  London W1J 8AJ

  www.unbound.com

  All rights reserved

  © Harriet Young, 2021

  The right of Harriet Young to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-78352-920-9

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-78352-921-6

  Cover design by Mecob

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

  For Michael

  Super Patrons

  ADW Decorators (Lancaster)

  Saika Ahmed

  Ceyrone Akkawi

  Julia Arrington

  Adam Ball

  Zara Barnfield

  Jason Bartholomew

  John Bedi

  Jessica Behegan

  Heather Blanchard

  Rebecca Blockley

  Annabelle Blythe

  Jacob Blythe

  Richard Blythe

  Stephanie Blythe

  Alison Bolton

  Elizabeth Bradley

  Madison Brinker

  Kelli Bryan

  Joseph Burne

  Reilly Campbell

  Sandra Carvalho

  Kelsie Christensen

  Ann Clough

  Beverley Ann Clough

  Robyn Cooke

  Sophie Cooke

  Susan Cooke

  Lianne Cooper

  Robert Cox

  Coral Davies

  Stephanie Dawson

  Rachel Deary

  Laura Driscoll

  Lauren Du Bignon

  Marijn Duits

  Lee Edwards

  Shane Evans

  Catherine Ewart

  David Fairer

  Paco Flores-Kiejda

  Beate Friedrich

  Michael Friedrich

  Xiana Fumega Domínguez

  Helen Gambarota

  Lana Garrett

  Paddy Gill

  Ellie Goddard

  Aymara González Montoto

  Alex Green

  James Grime

  Professor Phil Harris

  Helen and Mike

  George Hughes

  Andrew Hurley

  Berni Hurton

  Gail Jones

  Andrew Khan

  Malcolm Khan

  Rachael Kinsella

  Emma Knowles

  Céline Külling

  Pete Langman

  Alan Lewis

  Jessica Luker

  Pat Luker

  Catherine Rose Maw

  Helen Maw

  Christian & Aisha McAleenan

  Mark McCabe

  Tom McGuirk

  Felix Mclaughlin

  Jason Mclaughlin

  Nicole Medin

  Morgan Mills

  Jamie Moans

  Fran Mulhern

  Abby Mulvaney

  Laura Murdoch

  Jessica Neumann

  Sandra Newton

  Alison Nichols

  Mark O’Connor

  Caoimhe O’Gorman

  Penny Orthmann

  Becky Owen

  Doriane Pittet

  Jonathan Potter

  Janet Rawlings

  Rebecca Read

  Ashley Redwine

  Alexandra Richiteanu

  Calum Roberts

  Holly Roberts

  Laura Robin

  Angeles Sanchez

  Sharon Sawyers

  Abbi Shaw

  Laura Silva

  Liz Smith

  Hannah Spencer

  Ioana Stanculescu

  Elizabeth Standring

  Romey Sylvester

  Jennifer TenEyck

  Penelope Thomas

  Victoria Thornton

  Adam Tinworth

  Alexandra Toller

  Chris and Alex Toller

  Florence Toller

  Henry Toller

  Víctor Toller

  Liz Toller-Blackburn

  Jane Turnbull Lyon

  Aileen Ugalde

  Abbie Ward

  Isabella Rae Wharton-Mclellan

  Megan White

  Michael Williams

  Alice Young

  David Young

  Koala Young

  Michael Young

  Panda Young

  Tricia Young

  Wikje Zelisse

  This is a fictionalised account of the lives of some of those accused of witchcraft during the 1612 Pendle witch trials.

  Detailed information about these women and men is scarce.

  ‘When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction.’

  ― Stephen King

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Super Patrons

  Frontispiece

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Unbound Supporters

  Prologue

  With a crack, the cradle is empty

  The mother is sobbing

  The cradle is empty

  With a crack

  The sun never shone down by Malkin Tower. That’s what everyone said. The place was brown, or grey in the winter, and enveloped in a smell – the smell of death, someone told me. There’d be children about, dirty ones wearing rags, you’d never go past that way if you could help it because they’d rob you. But the kids weren’t the worst thing, even if they were lice-ridden. No. The worst thing was those evil demons, witches – murderers, the lot of them. Some in my family met a sticky end at the hands of them, and there’s a dozen families in the valley who could say the same thing.

  Even now, even now after the whole place is gone, razed to the ground after the trial, I wouldn’t go down that way. I’d rather walk a hundred miles out of my way. Why? Well. They really tried their best to get them, and they got most, and I do feel better for that. But the worst one. The worst one by far. She survived. And I know she did some terrible, terrible things. I saw her. She did them to me, she did them to my family, she even did them to her own heathen kind. And she’s out there still. I’m always looking over my shoulder.

  Sometimes my grandchildren will say to me, ‘Why you thinking about that, Ma, it’s been years and she were just a child, what harm could she do?’ And I’ll say, ‘You just count yourselves lucky you didn’t have to live it, if you had you’d know.’ I’m not misremembering, even if I am getting on in years a bit now, because others know it too. I’m not being superstitious, because others know it too. No one goes down that way, by Malkin Tower. She could be anywhere, that one, and if she decided she wanted to get revenge against one of us, well, we wouldn’t have a chance. Keep yourself to yourself, that’s my advice, don’t go near that evil ruin. And for what it’s worth, make sure you say your prayers. Although they didn’t help us much back then.

  1

  With thundering hooves

  The fall; an instant, an eternity

  A skull cracked like an egg

  Like an egg

  1537 Whalley, Lancashire

  They were collecting sticks for the fire when they saw it. It was a cold day for June, and it would be a cold night.

  ‘Annie, look!’ Elizabeth gasped, pointing towards the horizon.

  They had reached the crest of a small hill and, following the line of Elizabeth’s arm, Anne could see in the distance smoke billowing towards the iron-grey sky. She dropped her armful of sticks.

  ‘It’s the abbey!’ she yelled and set off running down the
hill, calling Elizabeth to follow her.

  ‘Stop, Annie!’ Elizabeth threw her own sticks aside and raced after her. Fire was never a good thing, not that much fire anyway. She ran and ran, jumping over tree roots and low, stone walls to try to catch her friend. Anne was always the faster runner; she was only seven and could beat most of the boys in the village, so Elizabeth didn’t have much of a chance. Before long though, Elizabeth saw Anne stop dead in the middle of a field. The view to the abbey here was very clear, and when Elizabeth caught her, clutching her side and gasping for breath, she saw what had halted Anne so suddenly. Men on horses. Men in armour on horses, looking like metal giants breathing fire. The girls were still a fair way away, but even so the smell of the raging furnace hit them with fury.

  ‘Annie…’ Elizabeth whispered, grasping her hand.

  Anne stood still as a mountain, and did not turn to face her friend. A tear carved its way down her cheek. A breeze suddenly whipped up and her tangled blonde hair blew over her face, but she made no effort to sweep it away from her eyes.

  Elizabeth knew exactly why. Smoke and fire were pouring from the abbey grounds, but the imposing abbey was made almost entirely from stone. The buildings that were much more likely to be burning were the wooden outbuildings, and Anne’s father worked in the stables. Elizabeth’s mother sometimes cleaned in the abbey, a favour from the abbot, but because the building was so sturdy she wasn’t afraid for her.

  From this distance, Elizabeth could see glints of metal – the men were drawing their swords – and she pulled Anne with all her might over to a crumbling stone wall on the edge of the field. When they were hidden, Anne shook Elizabeth’s arms away, crouched down and hid her face in her hands. Elizabeth knelt next to her, closed her eyes and waited.

  When she had been younger, she didn’t know how old, Elizabeth’s father had been arrested. She could remember now the men on horses who had arrived at their home, the thud of their hooves on the mud path. Her mother’s face had gone ashen at the sound, and she had hidden Elizabeth under a pile of rags in the corner. The men dismounted with a jangle of iron on iron and thumped on the door. Her mother had glanced desperately at Elizabeth’s hiding place, pressed her fingers to her lips, then opened the door. Through a small gap in the rags, trying desperately not to move or breathe, Elizabeth could see the men silhouetted against the doorframe, huge with their helmets and cloaks. One of the men had thrown her mother to the ground and she had stayed there. Her father had been sitting on a stool by the fire, mending his boots. He did not stand when his wife hit the floor, but carried on with his needle and thread, humming slightly. Two of the men had swept into the room – the scent of smoke and leather filled Elizabeth’s nostrils – grabbed her father under the armpits and dragged him away without a sound. That was the last time she saw him (although she hadn’t seen much of him before then either) and her mother eventually explained to her that he’d been hanged three weeks later. For stealing a sheep.

  Lots of children grew up without a ma or a pa, that was just the way things were. Some went away, for a job, and never came back. Many died. There were often outbreaks and although the young children and old ones were usually the ones to go, sometimes a strong adult would pass. So Elizabeth never felt sad about having no pa, apart from when the Nutter children from the farm across the way yelled at her, but it had been their sheep her father had stolen after all. Still, she knew why Anne was so sad. Her ma was already gone, childbirth; she lived with her pa and her grandma and there were five other children, the littlest one only crawling, so who would keep their family going now? When the abbot was back, he would probably help, like he’d helped Ma after Pa was taken away. The abbot said the Bible teaches everyone to be charitable to those in need.

  When some time had passed, more sounds came from the abbey – clanking and shouting. Elizabeth dared to peer over the wall. As far as she could see, the men were getting ready to leave. They were hurling sacks over their horses, and yelling to one another. Eventually, they were all ready and the horses began to canter away in a cloud of dust. They came perilously close to Anne and Elizabeth, who ducked beneath their wall and tried not to look at the grey, dusty giants hurtling down the path, stinking of scorched flesh and sweat. Fortunately, the men were distracted, cheerful, and did not spot the two small girls.

  ‘Annie, let’s go,’ Elizabeth hissed when the men were a safe distance away, pulling at Anne’s arm.

  Anne gazed up at her with eyes dark and bruised from crying. She allowed Elizabeth to pull her along silently, and together they trod carefully over the ever more singed grass towards the abbey. Elizabeth had been right – the abbey still stood, but there were no welcoming candles flickering in the windows. The building was dark, ominous.

  They walked apprehensively through the stone gate and around the northernmost abbey wall towards the stables. As soon as they had passed the wall, Elizabeth bent double and, gasping, vomited onto the floor.

  Elizabeth’s mother lay there, glazed eyes staring at the heavens, her brown dress pulled up over her hips exposing a gaping wound to her stomach. White, icy still. There was no way anyone could survive an incision like that. Elizabeth crawled over to her, shock causing her to shake, put her arms around her mother’s neck and began to sob into her shoulder.

  Anne swallowed back bile and left her friend with her mother’s corpse. She slowly walked towards the raging furnace, which used to be a stable, eyes fixed in front of her.

  ‘Child?’ a disembodied voice whispered.

  Anne whipped around to see a monk hiding behind a pile of barrels, his round face sweating from the otherworldly heat.

  ‘Have they gone?’

  Anne nodded, her lips tightly shut, and kept walking towards the stable. There was an echoing, creaking noise and with a crash, part of the roof fell away. Anne lifted her head – she had hit the ground – and saw that the monk had pulled her safely from a falling, burning beam which now lay smouldering on the floor beside her.

  ‘Don’t go any further!’ the monk spluttered, his red face smeared with ash. ‘They came and created Hell, and now Hell is here on earth! God forgive me, I could not save them!’

  ‘Who?’ Anne asked tremulously. ‘Where is everyone?’

  The monk simply closed his eyes and muttered prayers under his breath, rocking back and forth towards the ground.

  Anne knew she shouldn’t be surprised about this. The king’s men had come weeks before to arrest the abbot. Pa had said that they didn’t like the old religion any more, they had to do something different now, but the abbot had carried on. All the people in Whalley still went to the abbey, they still sprinkled salt over the graves of the dead to keep away the evil, and Abbot Paslew still said the last rites and lit the incense and said the secret, precious prayers. Pa said this was wrong now, they had to do things the new way and the king must have heard. Anne didn’t know what the new way was. Whatever this was, it must be the new way. It must be what they had to do.

  ‘My pa works in the stables. I need to go and help him.’

  The monk grabbed her arm, fingernails dug into her flesh. Anne twisted her arm, desperately trying to free herself.

  ‘Look. Look at it!’ He gestured towards the stable, the glow hurt Anne’s eyes. ‘Nobody was left alive.’

  Still Anne struggled to free her arm, numb to the words he said to her. He clung on, red eyes burning into hers, until she felt pure exhaustion wash over her and she fell limp.

  The monk turned away from Anne towards the abbey wall. Still muttering and murmuring his forbidden prayers, he raised his arms towards something on the wall, something thrust through a window on a spike and left for the world to see. It was wrapped in chains, skeletal, with rags hanging from arms and gangling, loose legs. Its face, if it could still be called that, tipped sideways from a broken, purple neck, mouth gaping wide and eyes blank.

  The sky tipped inwards. Time stopped.

  ‘Who is it?’ Anne asked the monk, who raised his head towards the sky and muttered, as though he wished it were untrue.