The Maid, the Witch and the Cruel Queen by Terry Deary Page A

said.
    â€œAll carrying crosses,” Sir James Marley added.

    â€œAnd singing hymns,” Lord Scuggate put in. “The queen will love that!”
    â€œWould the town people do it?” Father Walton asked, and his bald head shone yellow in the light of the torches.
    â€œThey will if we promise them a few barrels of beer!” Lord Scuggate chuckled.
    The men laughed, and held out their wine cups for me to fill.

    â€œOld Nan doesn’t drink,” Father Walton said.
    Lord Scuggate sighed.
    â€œWho’s Old Nan?” Sir James asked as he cleaned his fingernails with his knife.
    â€œA wise woman who lives out at Butterburn in the hills,” Lord Scuggate snapped. “Some 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,” he said. “But you wouldn’t get her into a church or singing hymns.”

    â€œPerfect!” Sir James cried and waved his knife. “Queen Mary likes to see her sort burned.”
    â€œSo?” Lord Scuggate growled.
    â€œSo … burn her! Tomorrow at noon in the market square. Queen Mary will thank you for the rest of her blood-soaked life!”
    â€œPerfect!” Lord Scuggate chuckled. “Tomorrow at dawn we find Old Nan.”
    â€œShe could be out on the moors, collecting herbs at this time of the year,” the priest reminded him.
    â€œWe’ll track her down. That’s what my hunting dogs are for,” 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.
    â€œHere’s to good Queen Mary … and a death to all her enemies – especially Old Nan!”

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 couldn’t 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 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.
    â€œNan!” I said.
    â€œYoung Meg,” she nodded. “Come for a cure? At this time of the morning?”
    â€œNo, I’ve come to warn you about Lord Scuggate,” I told her.

    â€œI remember him when he was young. An idle and vicious lad,” she said, shaking her head. “His father spoiled him – 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.”
    â€œThen 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 … with heather honey.”
    Far away, the Bewcastle church clock struck five. Hounds howled. I didn’t have much