by Deryn Lake
She glanced over at Harry and just for one second he glanced back. She could not tell whether it was sweat or tears or both that ran down his face. A ghost of a smile played round her mouth and something in his stricken soul responded. A fleeting glimpse of the old warmth showed itself before he got to his feet and staggered from the room, too sickened to see or hear any more. And with that, with his leaving, the dream of Anne — his love witch — finally shattered into a million fragments and the song bird was silenced for ever. The game of chance was over.
*
On the day that the Queen was sentenced to die a summer storm formed over London and stayed brooding for an hour or so before it eventually moved off towards Surrey, seeming to follow the course of the river. To Zachary as he made his way to Sutton Place — first by water and then by horse — it was like an ever-present menace symbolizing something far more sinister than mere thunder and lightning. In fact as he and Sapphira came within sight of St Edward’s well it muttered distantly, at odds with the clear blue sky and the May blossom.
The decision to take her with him, to use his daughter in the fearful conflict with evil that must be carried out if the manor of Sutton was to know lasting peace, had been impossibly difficult. On the one hand was Rose Weston’s letter:
Right well beloved Dr Zachary,
I most humbly petition you for the sake of Francis’s soul to help me. Of the great malevolence that lies upon this land and upon those — in especial the male heirs — who dwell thereon, you know. But surely by ancient rite and counter evocation of good the spell can be lifted? Is it true of this span of life that all events are heretofore decided or can events be shaped by mankind? I know not but trust that you will act in wisdom. And if not for Francis then for the sake of my babe I do most zealously beseech that you bring about an end to this cruelty by the power given to you at your birth by God Almighty.
But he had known as he read it that his strength was not great enough; that an accursed place gained force with each victim claimed; that a cry long ago from a wretched woman had now assumed the ferocity of a vortex as it fed over the centuries. And his eyes had turned then to Sapphira and he had remembered the night when he had stood in the pentagram with Anne Boleyn — powerless and frightened — and one command from his child had halted the demonic fury. It was then that he had said to his wife:
‘It must be Sapphira who lays the curse of Sutton to rest. I knew it three years ago and I know it today. Only she has been granted the force.’
‘And if it kills her?’
‘It will not, it cannot. She is more in touch with the source of life than even my mother. She is the master — we the apprentices.’
‘But Zachary she is a six-year-old child.’
He had looked away.
‘Jane, I cannot let this evil persist.’
‘But is it not decreed that Francis Weston will die? Can any power — however great — change that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he had said wretchedly. ‘I have not solved the riddle.’
‘And you would risk our child for a question mark?’ The risk is negligible. She is mighty.’
Then for the first time ever his wife had taunted him with his bastard.
‘I suppose that your daughter in Calais — the babe of your whore Banastre — could take her place? Remember that I do not have another daughter.’
And she had left the room and it was thus that he had taken Sapphira to Sutton Place, with Jane removed to Allington Castle with Jasper, their son, and a black mood stalking. And every part of Zachary torn between the natural love and protection of a father and the wish of a white magician to see wickedness destroyed. And as they had approached the well Sapphira, unprompted by him, had said the ancient words to ward off the evil eye and then snuggled close to him — the two gestures summing up everything that was tearing at his conscience.
A servant from the house had brought down a trestle table as he had requested and it was on this that he now set two white candles and the crucifix that had once adorned the walls of Kenninghall Castle, and then took from his saddle bag the bowls and phials of water and salt that would make his rite close to the elements of the earth.
‘Sapphira,’ he said, as he placed them on the basic table of God, ‘wilt make the water holy?’
It was frightening to see her go forward, so small and so vulnerable, and pour the water and the salt together in purification, dip her thumb in the mix and paint the sign of the cross on his forehead as he knelt before her head bowed. And he knew, even as he bent over and similarly crossed her, that his blessing was not as strong, that the holy water on her brow could not hold such protection as his for in the end the command came from within and he was but a humble servant of nature in comparison with the catalyst that stood before him.
‘Come, give me thy hand,’ he said, and together they walked to the well lying so calm and so innocuous beneath the dying sun.
‘The evil dwells here,’ she said.
‘Aye, and has for centuries. Canst root it out?’
She turned to look at him for a second and he did not know if it was his mother or his child who said, ‘I cannot tell. The Old Serpent is well entrenched.’
He made the sign of the cross.
‘Try.’
She raised the bowl of water over her head and poured it headlong into the well, not bothering with sprinkling or delicacy, and then said, ‘Father, there is something very ancient here. Something of the old gods that were not tempered by our Lord.’
‘But the Beast?’
‘He is here too. And yet the woman who did this was pure. It is a strange occurrence.’
In the distance the thunder rumbled again and the sun glowered behind a tree.
‘Call him out, Sapphira. Call him out and then let us depart.’
She stopped where she stood and all of time went spinning. ‘Zachary, Zachary,’ she said, ‘should we not play in the meadows?’
He did not know where he was or what he was saying as a joyful madness possessed him.
‘Mother — it is you! Can we run with the wind?’
‘Aye, now and for ever. But there’s a danger here. Should we go on?’
He was a boy again and the hand in his was strong and adult.
‘If I am with you I am safe.’
He did not hear her say ‘Yes, but I am not’, because the dream was upon him and it was only as the sun went out of his eyes that he saw he was with his child at the well of St Edward and the last few moments had been a dance of his brain.
‘Begin,’ he said. ‘Call up and dismiss that which haunts.’
She bowed to him like a novice nun and stood before the altar.
In her clear child’s voice she called out, ‘Depart, thou foul demon to the place appointed for thee. I command the evil to leave this place. Depart the Beast rooting up the vine of the Lord.’
It seemed as if all life had grown still. No bird sang, no leaf moved, all wind dropped — the storm which had followed them throughout was about to break.
Sapphira took up the bowl of salt and crossing to the well, poured it in as it was.
‘With this salt I make this water holy. Begone, thou power of long ago, begone the curse as old as time, begone, thou ancient Master of Darkness, begone ...’
But she stopped speaking. From out of the well was arising what Zachary could only describe as a mist, white and thick and formless. For a second he gazed and then he hurried forward to protect Sapphira in his arms. But it was too late. She had thrown herself on the ground and was rolling about in convulsions, her voice growling in her throat. The caged hare, which he had brought with them to receive the evil as it left the well, sat with whiskers and nose a-twitch — unharmed. The malevolence had entered his child.
‘Odin, Odin,’ came the terrible gruff voice and as she spoke ectoplasm poured from her lips in a torrent.
‘Christ protect us,’ called Zachary. ‘Salom arepo lemel opera molas. Sator arepo tenet opera rotas
.’
Sapphira writhed in agony.
‘Death, madness and despair, for ever,’ she shouted in the voice of a man. ‘So it is decreed.’
‘Depart Old Serpent,’ Zachary screamed. ‘I command thee to leave this child in peace. Christ, have mercy on her soul. Christ, protect your lamb.’
The ectoplasm was turning to slime and despite himself, despite the fact that this was his beloved child the sight of her brought vomit to Zachary’s mouth and forced him to turn away retching and trembling. Behind him he could hear Sapphira snarling frightening obscenities and overhead the skies gave up their burden and with a wild flash of sheet lightning the rain started in full spate.
Suddenly he remembered the crucifix. Picking it up from the altar he wielded it over his head like a broadsword, turning back to where his daughter lay, her face leering and goat-like.
‘In the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost I command the evil to leave this child.’
And then a deep roar of thunder inspired him.
‘Thor, god of men, protect my daughter. Rescue her from the violence of Odin. As the runes are consecrated in your name save this maiden that she may dedicate her reading of them to thee.’
He never knew whether paganism or Christianity saved her but to him — the Romany, the seer of hidden mysteries — it was all one anyway. God of gods, one force of infinity — only silly, tiny man to make dogmas and sects.
He saw the ugliness drain from her and then for a second she was transformed. A young woman with hair the colour of wild strawberries lay where his daughter had been and said, ‘Oh Edward, if only you had loved me. If only ...’
Then Sapphira was back again and he bent over her, raising her in his arms.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Thou art restored.’
She opened her eyes and looked at him; the saddest, most pitiful glance he had ever seen. Then opening her mouth she tried to say something but no sound at all came out.
‘Sapphira,’ he shouted, shaking her despite himself.
The tears trickled down her cheeks and she shook her head and he knew at once what terrible vengeance had been wreaked. His daughter would never speak again. Her wonderful gift had been cut off at a stroke for she would never more be able to communicate her clear sight and her mystical knowledge. The child was dumb.
‘Oh God, God, God,’ he said, cradling her to him and weeping. ‘I should not have brought thee. I should have had the courage to come here alone.’
She had lost consciousness again as he swung her over his saddle leaving everything behind but the cross and the trembling hare, which he released unharmed into the forest. And as he mounted, knowing that he would never set foot in this place again, the tempest burst furiously overhead as if all the universe was screaming. The sound of distant hooves amongst the savage thunder made him peer through the rain and coming towards him he saw Rose Weston, her hair streaming out behind her like a burst of flame and her face livid in the storm flashes. Like that, and astride a great white horse she seemed to be one of the Norse maidens herself; a Valkyrie come to take a dead warrior to Valhalla.
‘Is it done?’ she shouted above the tumult.
‘Aye.’
‘But is it exorcized? Is it free from the curse?’
Zachary looked back at the well and for once he was powerless. His clairvoyance eluded him. Then he looked down at the child which hung over his saddle like a broken doll, arms and legs trailing down, fair hair almost touching the mud below.
‘I hope to God it is,’ was all he said as he galloped away.
Rose stayed perfectly still and watched him threading a path amongst the trees until he was lost from view. And as she turned back and came within sight of Sutton Place it seemed to her that the house reached out to her, that its massive structure, its tower, its mouldings and transoms, were trying to tell her something.
She looked up at it knowing that it would stand when she and descendants to whom she would just be a name had long since mouldered into dust. When others had come who would know little and care not at all about the tragedy of Francis Weston. When the King and his Court had turned into names in history books. Would the house reveal its secret to the people destined one day to live there?
‘What are you going to do to them?’ she shouted into the storm. ‘What lies ahead?’
And it seemed to her that the wind, moaning through the quadrangle, answered, ‘Wait ... wait ...’, but that Sutton Place made no reply.
Epilogue
It took him a long time to focus properly after he opened his eyes. At first he couldn’t see the room at all and then, very slowly, outline after outline became clear and he realized that he was in his study, softly furnished and warmly lit. And his brown speckled hands feeling about him cautiously told him that he was in his working chair, recognized the wood of the desk before him. So they had put him in his favourite place to die. He supposed that that was what the world would call a fitting end — if it ever knew! The great magnate, the colossus of all tycoons, making his exit from the place where he had spent so many hours, making or losing what other men would term a fortune with a single phone call, a signature on a document.
With difficulty he began what he knew must be his last proper look about him. He had always loved the room, had chosen it at once for his working place. But its history was a bit dull, apparently no more than a kitchen or storeroom. At its best the room where the working lads and the Fool had slept. Nothing really romantic.
But the house, oh the house, that had never let him down. He had bought a bit of English history and it had never disappointed. The cunning old devil who had built it — initials R.W. all over the stonework and some sort of pun on a barrel known as a tun. West-tun. That had style, that had what he would call a bit of cheek, a bit of class. Pity they — the Westons — had all known sadness. But maybe that was the lot of everybody — a few laughs and several tears.
Funny thing that, that people generally thought how well the world had used him. They couldn’t have bothered to piece together the pattern of his life. So much death, so much sadness. He’d been so low sometimes he’d even thought there was some kind of curse on him. But when he looked in the family archives there was nothing.
But Timmy and Talitha’s deaths, Paul the third’s ear cut off by kidnappers and shoved, without respect for flesh, into an envelope and posted — and then George. That had been the worst. To love a boy, to trust him with your inheritance, then the son dying before the father — that was cruel. Somebody else had thought that in Sutton Place. Strange he should know!
And thoughts of George set dates going through his mind. May 17 Francis Weston executed — if his memory was right — and June 6 George’s sad end. And then his eyes focusing on a desk clock and a rickety calendar that one of his grandchildren had made him for Christmas made it all inevitably clear. It was two minutes to midnight and it was June 5 and he had woken up on purpose, come back from that strange half-world — out of which he could have wandered like a lost child finding its way home — not only to bid farewell to his mansion but to keep his rendezvous with George. All he had to do was stay alive till midnight and then his son would come for him. One needed no particularly strong religious convictions to see that. If it wasn’t meant, if it wasn’t part of some plan of such infinite proportions that no one dared think about it too much, the cancer would have taken him away long before. That was why he was sitting here now with the Old Reaper grinning in the shadows.
And there was something in the shadows, somebody standing there and watching him. His eyes, longing to stare at eternity, tried hard to see but there was so much mist about. Then it became clearer. It was a man with eyes set widely apart and a thick thatch of dark hair and a woman with long eyelashes. He stared speechless, not sure if his voice would come out even if he wanted it to.
And then there were other people. Standing round his chair and smiling at him and being at one with him and coming to escort him. A handsome young man
hand-in-hand with a red-headed girl; a woman with hair like a silver cloudburst and with her a man whose face he had seen in history lessons — a famous man. And more people still. Names went through his mind — Richard, Melior Mary, Hyacinth, Francis, Sibella, Rose.
And then, unbelievably, a jester sat at his feet and looked up at him with a great split grin and shook his stick with the belled head on it and he saw that the face on the stick was that of death. The Fool put out his hand but he wouldn’t take it because George wasn’t there and it was too soon.
‘Wait,’ he said and his voice was a rasp, like no sound he had ever heard in his life before. It was impossible now to look at the clock because his eyes were growing fixed and he could only sense that they were all still standing round him silently. All he could see was the jester’s waiting hand and a bright light in the room — like dawn.
In the Great Hall a clock chimed midnight. And then, oh God, and then the door opened. The final effort, pain upon pain, a million years to turn his head and look and see the outline of a man. George had come and was walking towards him. He opened his mouth and soundlessly said his son’s name. And then it wasn’t difficult at all. He took the Fool’s hand and stood up. Something like a discarded dressing gown was lying on his chair but he ignored it as he stepped out with the others into the morning.
*
The doctor saw him die as he walked towards him but couldn’t catch the last word he said. But though he had already diagnosed he felt for the pulse. All quiet — like the room. Empty and silent except for the huddled figure in the great chair. He made a note of the time — two minutes past midnight on June 6, 1976 — then looked once more at his patient. Sad little corpse — all his dynamic power made a joke by death’s inexorable levelling. Oh well, the reign of the oil king was over. Sutton Place must look for a new master. The richest man in the world was dead.