by Lucy Jago
That which you seek is within you,
The strength of the God and the wisdom of the
Goddess.
Do not look without you
But know ’tis all within.
For behold I have been with you from the beginning
And I am that which is attained at the end of desire.
You are your best Protectress,
Learn to trust yourself.
In you is the strength of a thousand hearts,
Have courage to fight for your life.
Currents of power and hope such as she had never felt before coursed through Cess’s mind and body. Eyes shut, she savored the new feelings of strength they created.
But before she could open her eyes to smile at the women, a terrible pain made her gasp and double over. It was so great she feared she would split apart, like a chestnut in flames. Her companions had turned to ash and the clearing was burned black and naked. She screamed and flailed around to hit out at the evil spirits flying at her out of the shadows.
“The evil is too close!” shouted the younger woman. “Surround her!”
Both women fell to their knees and circled the girl with their arms, fear in their faces. They bellowed the protective spell: “Goddess, save thy child! Goddess, save thy child!”
Gradually the pain subsided. After several minutes, Cess dared to open her eyes. The suffocating dark had vanished and the clearing was as before, bathed in the golden light of early evening. The women were kneeling beside her, eyes wide with shock.
“That was the presence of the evil that is amongst us,” said Alathea. “It comes from one who feels no love for any person. His heart is dead, and that makes him more dangerous than any other foe, for there is no way to reach him,” she whispered, shaken by what she had just witnessed.
“I cannot ever face that,” said Cess, trembling. “Whatever power you think I have, you are mistaken,” she gasped. The forms of the women in the clearing were fading.
“If you do not triumph over this evil, it will kill you, and many others with you,” said Edith, as if from a great distance. “You are young for such a task, but we will arm you as best we can. Poor child, have courage.” The last thing Cess could make out were the tears in her friend’s eyes.
“Child? Cess? Cecily!” her mother was shaking her arm, hissing her name into her ear in the hope that the rest of the congregation would not notice her daughter’s stupor. Cess opened her eyes and staggered, unable to feel her limbs. Her mother helped her stay upright until the peculiar feeling of being poured back into her body was over. She was shivering, and her heart thumped in her chest as if she had sprinted away from something frightening. She could remember nothing from the middle of the sermon to the end of the service.
Gradually her body steadied, but her mind was whirling like hops in the brew pot, at one moment elated, then angry, a moment later tumbling into sadness and fear, then joy again. She could make no sense of what had happened. It was as if she had been pulled into someone else’s dream.
Her mother was staring at her, half cross that Cecily appeared to have fallen asleep, half worried by her pallor.
“For pity’s sake, child, do you have a fever?”
Cess shook her head and allowed her mother to lead her to the back of the line shuffling out into the soft evening light. Outside, Sir Edward was distributing coins to the villagers. Drax Mortain had mounted his horse and was gently stroking his hawk. Cess could not help staring at him. Something about him mesmerized and repelled her in equal measure. His eyes flickered over the crowd, unseeing and uninterested, except when they alighted on Amelia.
“A purse for the poor?” asked Sir Nathaniel, holding up a velvet bag heavy with coins to Sir Edward’s son. Drax Mortain took the purse lazily and chucked a coin toward a gaggle of children. He tossed another some distance away, sending the children careering after it. Several fell and began to cry. He smiled slightly, amused by the chaos he could create. Cess glanced at Sir Edward, who looked unusually guarded. Drax continued lobbing coins and watched the children grow more hysterical, running screaming through the crowd, chasing the coins hither and thither, like starved birds at seeding time.
Only Cess and William did not join in. Drax noticed their stillness. William dropped his gaze, but Cess met his scrutiny and could not tear her eyes away. She felt her skin creep as his eyes moved over her body. It felt as though he was trying to remember where he had seen her before, although she knew they had never met.
Drax moved his gaze to William. When he noticed the boy was cripple-born, he gestured for him to come closer to receive a coin. Uncomfortable with the attention, William obediently walked forward with his arm outstretched, but just as he came within reach, Drax flicked the coin into the distance, with a harsh laugh, echoed by many of the villagers who were watching.
Instead of the dull ache of shame and anger that usually gnawed at her at moments like this, Cess felt as if she had been hit by lightning. Each wave of laughter was another bolt.
“No more!” she screamed inside, the sound bouncing painfully around her skull without means of escape. Before Drax could finish his bark of mirth, Cess had leaped backward and caught the coin. The crowd fell silent, shocked and fascinated by her insolence. Cess knew that if she pocketed the coin and gave it to William later, she might get away with what she had just done, particularly if she dropped a curtsy to Drax to show some humility.
I will not, she thought, surprised by her own defiance and wondering if her experience in the church had turned her mind.
She walked slowly toward William.
“Cess,” hissed William, “I don’t want it. It doesn’t matter!”
It did matter.
“This is yours,” she said, pressing the warm metal into William’s palm, willing him not to look or walk away from her and to stand firm. He took the coin, but Cess could see that he was unhappy with what she had done.
Suddenly the crowd came alive, hissing at her and whispering among themselves. The fury that had driven her drained quickly away and was replaced by a terrible sinking feeling. She looked around, but not a single face looked kindly at her or grudgingly admiring. Even William was limping away.
From the vaguely disdainful look on Drax Mortain’s face, it was clear he did not deem her worth the effort of a whipping. Sir Edward mounted his horse and signaled the drummer to fall in and his retinue to follow.
Sir Nathaniel addressed Cess as he climbed into his saddle.
“You will come to my office after the holy day, on Monday,” said Sir Nathaniel. His icy tone left her in no doubt that she would not be poultry girl at Montacute House for much longer. She felt very small among the horses of the nobles as they rode away.
What had she done? Her mother could not earn enough to keep them from hunger. What had made her think she could stand up against the village and a nobleman? Maybe they were right—perhaps William’s deformity and her own poor birth really were signs of God’s displeasure—and she should keep quiet, as the parson urged, and show humility and shame.
Drax Mortain nodded toward Amelia, who approached the mounted noble gingerly. He dropped the velvet purse into her hand, and she smiled up at him. The look of triumph on her face added to Cess’s unease. Then Drax turned his horse so close to Cess that she had to jump out of its way. The great white hawk flicked its head and she heard the tinkle of a bell. Such a pretty sound to accompany her disgrace.
Amelia slipped away from the crowd outside the church doors, even though she was enjoying the vicious gossip about Cess and William, and made her way to the parsonage, pausing to hide her May crown in some long grass. When she knocked, it was the parson, rather than a servant, who opened the door. His coat and hat were still in his hand, and he looked peeved to be disturbed.
“There is no need to clout the door so. What is it?”
Amelia did not answer but bowed her head and peeked up under her eyelashes with a look of innocence she had perfected over many
years of getting her siblings into trouble.
“Very well, enter, but I must dine, for I have much to do this afternoon.” He marched into the hall, where the servants had laid a trestle with a plain dinner of roasted poultry and fruit. He sat, without inviting Amelia to join him, and helped himself to small portions. After several minutes of absorbed chewing he looked up.
“I am relieved that you have removed your May crown. You may speak.”
“Sir, I am troubled.”
“If you’re with child, take your troubles elsewhere. I can’t waste time on low-life doxies.”
Amelia reddened and pulled herself up to her full height. “Indeed not, sir. I am a gentleman’s daughter. It concerns the dead boy found this morning.”
Ignatius looked Amelia up and down, as if her appearance could vouch for the reliability of her information. “I see.”
“It concerns my cousin, now estranged. Cess .. . Cecily Perryn.”
“Go on.” Ignatius picked at his teeth with a shard of chicken bone.
“I have seen her several nights leave her cottage and go into the woods on Saint Michael’s Hill.” Amelia’s conscience was not overly troubled by this lie. After all, Cess was known to deliver requests from the villagers to Edith.
The parson looked nonplussed. “So?”
Amelia was surprised that the parson was so out of touch with his flock that he did not understand the significance of what she had just revealed.
“The woods, sir, on Saint Michael’s Hill, are home to the crone Edith Mildmay.”
“The witch? This is known?” said the parson, the color in his cheeks rising alarmingly. “Is Satan’s working in the world of such small matter in Montacute that she is left undisturbed?”
Amelia was rather taken aback by the parson’s reaction. Surely even he understood that many in the village thought Edith a wise woman and relied heavily on her medicines. “I know nothing of that, sir. But as you spoke of the dead boy in church today I thought it might be worth mentioning,” said Amelia, looking her most sincere. “I saw Cecily mumbling furiously at Sir Drax Mortain after the service. She defied him most brazenly and, I think, was cursing him. Should he not be told what I saw and warned to take care?”
When Amelia emerged, she was pleased to find that her May crown was where she had left it. Putting it on carefully, she wondered whether her conversation with the parson would bring her the rewards she sought. Although this would be at the expense of her cousin Cess, it was clear the girl had no wit and was brought low already. She clutched the velvet purse that had so recently been in the hand of Viscount Drax Mortain. It was clear he was interested in her, but as her mother had often repeated, men sometimes needed a nudge in the right direction. She knew that boys and men fell for her as slugs for beer—why should it be any different if a man had a title? There was no one suitable for her in the village. She hoped her visit would provide the encouragement Drax Mortain might need. She heard the door of the parson’s house slam, and ducked down at the sound of approaching steps. The parson strode past with a determined step, heading in the direction of Montacute House.
C H A P T E R 5
He was taunting William,” said Cess the following day, walking fast through the morning drizzle to keep up with her mother. Her arms held the meager bundle of damp kindling they had managed to collect in Stoke Wood. She was tired, having slept very little for worrying about what the steward would say to her on Monday morning. The fitful sleep she had managed was filled with strange dreams of shattered bones, broken teeth, and bruised flesh.
The bells were once again calling the village to prayer, but she and her mother had decided that they should avoid the Sunday service and the stares and disapproval Cess would attract.
“I don’t care if he was murdering a baby, Cecily,” Anne snapped. “You keep yourself out of the way when Their Lordships are around. We will both be in trouble for your stupidity. We are not loved in this village.” She puffed air sharply through her nostrils, a habit Cess knew meant that her mother was very angry. “Now you will lose your place as poultry girl, and we will have scarcely anything to live on.”
Cess felt heat rise in her face. She wanted to explain about the strange vision she had had in the church, which she was sure had prompted her defiance. She had thought about it a great deal, puzzling its meaning. But she kept quiet. Talking about such things would only add to her mother’s worries. The same was true of the pendant hidden in her bodice. She had not even dared tell William about that.
The last time Cess had felt so desperate was when her grandparents had died of plague. Before their bodies were cold, her uncle Richard had told her mother “to leave and take your bastard with you.” He had never forgiven Anne for having a child out of wedlock and bringing shame on the family. Cess and Anne were forced to move into a tiny cottage, not much more than an animal shelter, at the poor eastern end of the village. Used to the luxury of a brick floor and a box bed with sheets, the change had been humiliating. In that sorry place she grieved for her grandparents, whom she had loved with all her heart and who had loved her fiercely in return. They had protected her as much as they could from the circumstances of her birth, and few had dared to taunt Cess too cruelly while they were alive, although she hid from them many of the indignities she suffered.
Since their deaths three years before, life for Cess and Anne had become very hard. Had it not been for her position at the House, they would have starved.
She trudged in silence to their cottage and stooped through the doorway into the mud-floored room that was their home. It would seem like a palace if her behavior led them to be thrown into the street. A sour smell assailed her nostrils after the freshness of the rain-washed wood. Her mother had resealed the floor with milk a few days before. The room was gloomy, for a sheet of linen soaked in linseed oil hung over the window to keep out the worst of the rain.
Cess sat down on a low stool, her head in her hands. One foot kicked absentmindedly at the earthenware lid covering the embers in the fire pit. With each blow, a trickle of smoke escaped and floated up into the thatch. Against the far wall was their bed, a simple wooden frame strung with rope, on which rested a straw pallet. Although covered in a coarse linen sheet, the straw poked through like needles. Behind a low wooden partition that divided the room in half was their pig. A lean, unhappy creature, twitching in its sleep, it was almost the only part of her mother’s inheritance that her uncle had allowed them to keep—the pig and a finely carved oak chest. In cold weather, their few chickens also gathered in this small space at night. Only at the height of summer was the cottage warm, and then the thatch kept it so hot the floor cracked.
“I’m sorry,” said Cess to her mother. In the dim light, Cess saw Anne’s face soften a little.
“I know you are, Cess. You don’t like to see an unjust thing; you have always been that way. It hurts me to say it, but we cannot afford such principles.”
Her mother moved to the chest. Although old, it was the only handsome piece of furniture they owned, and Anne had refused to barter it even when their bellies were painful with hunger. She picked up her stitching and sat on the back doorstep. Having had a child out of wedlock, Anne found it hard to get work, but she was occasionally given other women’s mending. It earned her a few farthings.
The pig woke and leaned against the partition until Cess let it out. It pushed past her mother and went out into their small garden. Cess watched it from the doorway, rooting around for tiny scraps and straining toward the vegetables behind the wattle fence. After a while it gave up and flopped in the mud.
Cess thought of William’s face as she had handed him the coin. His mother would be so cross she might forbid him to talk to her, which she had always wanted to do anyway. It was William’s father who had insisted they allow William to choose his own friends, in gratitude for her saving their son’s life.
“May I leave?” asked Cess, who could not bear to stay cooped up with her mother for long. Anne loo
ked at her daughter doubtfully.
“I’ll be careful,” said Cess, interpreting her mother’s expression. “Will you come to the great house later?”
“No, I will work.”
Cess’s mother stayed home during festivities, particularly the coarse revelries around May Day, with their emphasis on sex and fertility. The crude jokes that flew around at such times, about her having fallen pregnant unwed, were too much for her.
Cess kept her head down and walked a little way out of the village, through Hornhay Orchard, to the copse by the stream. So many trees had been felled, even in her memory, that this copse was all that remained of a large wood that had stretched from here to the village of Tintinhull, several miles to the north. She knew the land was needed for crops, but still it saddened her to see so many mighty trees toppled and sawed up for timber. William told her she was foolish to feel for trees when so many died of plague and hunger, but she could not agree with him.
He was sitting, hunched against the rain, on the steep bank of the stream where they always met if they had no other arrangements. As she approached, she knew he heard her footfall, but he did not look up. Cess crouched on her haunches a little way from him, pushing leaves around with a stick. It was several minutes before she spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” The anger in William’s voice shocked Cess more than her mother’s had. She had hoped he might be secretly proud of her for standing up against the cruelty of others.
“I could not bear for him to taunt you.”
“You made me a laughingstock more than I am already. That I should need a bastard girl to protect me! If you had left well alone no one would have noticed, but now everyone is shouting after me ‘Cesspit’s baby! Cesspit’s baby!’” William’s anger was deeper than she had ever seen. Whatever her intention, she had joined the ranks of those who had hurt him.