I’ll warrant you’re curious what Mistress Nutter’s doing here at the castle. I haven’t the foggiest notion. All I can say is they didn’t put her down in the Well Tower with us lot. She’s paid handsome for a room above ground, waiting for the Justice to come to his senses. I expect she’ll hire some fancy lawman from London, and that the governor won’t be keeping her long.
I knew Mistress Nutter as a bairn, back when she was Alice Whitaker, though that must be nigh-on sixty years ago now. We all stood outside the church as she wedded Master Richard, and our Lizzie and me helped birth her last lad Myles, who came out backwards.
You can tell she’s well-placed just by looking at her alongside my lass. Alice is a good ten years older than Lizzie, but you’d swear she was the youngster of the pair. Of course, she’s grown a bit stouter over the years, yet was ever grand and tidy. Her chestnut hair’s now faded to ash and her lips are thinner, which makes her seem fussy and cold. Yet for all that, there’s many-a grateful pauper in Pendle who’ll not hear a word said against her. We’ve all known her charity at one time or another, and I can’t for the life of me fathom who’d point a finger at that kindly soul. But someone must have a grudge to bear otherwise she’s still be at Crowtrees Farm . . . which just goes to show that we’ve all got enemies.
So you’d best wear white today. For protection.