by Lucy Jago
He took a deep breath and held it long enough for his head to clear. For the first time in many years he remembered when he first learned to do this. He tried to force the pictures from his mind but could not. He was a boy, looking into the coffins of his older sisters, Margaret and Rosalie, and his younger brother, Henry. He had not wanted to look, their bodies were ravaged by illness, but his mother was there, strange and furious.
“You must face death,” she had insisted. A few days later, three more coffins. Edmund, seventeen, already making his way at court. Little Elizabeth, six; and his mother. Rumors circulated later that she had committed the great sin of killing herself in her grief, but Drax refused to believe she had willingly abandoned him. He had wanted to die himself, and for a while it looked as if he would.
On the day of the last funeral he had held his breath until he fainted. He remembered how the servants had fussed around him, but his father had remained silent, oblivious to his son’s suffering in the midst of his own pain. When he came around, his head was clear. For a while it made him feel better, powerful, that he could deprive his body of air, take himself away, and come back feeling stronger.
Unfortunately, he also learned that drink did something similar, and he had gone mad for a while. Something happened one night that made his father banish him to a tutor in London. But he did not wish to think about that. That was the old Drax that did stupid, violent things fired by alcohol and emotion. The old Drax was gone.
Even as he stood there, a powerful, strong man in his thirty-second year, he could hear the rhythmic thwhack of his tutor’s whip on his backside. He would never forgive his father for sending him away, but would not waste time hating him.
My mother would be proud of me now, he thought, remembering his mother’s smile but not how happy it used to make him. He had gained control over grief, his feelings, his heart. He could hear of, or inflict, death without a flicker of emotion.
You must face death.
He leaned his head against the cold stone mullions to clear the images of the coffins. He would get that scroll. He had always possessed an uncanny ability to find things, to know what people were thinking, to manipulate situations to his own advantage. His mother had called him her sorcerer.
A cold draught and a little cough made him spin round. Bar-tram Paget was halfway through the door.
“What is it, Paget?” Drax said gruffly.
Bartram moved into the room and shut the door behind him. “The girl who escaped from the cellars, I have just remembered where I saw her. It was she who defied you in front of the church.
When I read the dice, I saw you had been crossed. Perhaps it is she who is your enemy.”
“The girl?” Drax paused, turning the idea over in his head.
“The girl knows about the activities in the old priory and is wandering around the countryside unchecked. She is certainly our most dangerous foe at present,” said the page.
“My father refused to dismiss her, despite her defiance. What is her name? Cecily, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. And Maid Amelia has informed you that she is involved in witchcraft.”
Drax Mortain snorted. “Amelia’s accusations against her cousin are lies to attract my attention,” he said dismissively.
“Although I do sense the presence of witchcraft,” said Paget.
“People see witches wherever they look these days, Paget. A real witch is a very rare find indeed. First thing in the morning I will send dogs out to hunt Cecily and the boy. Get a piece of her clothing—we shall need it for the dogs to trace a scent—but go carefully; we don’t want her mother running to my father.”
“Shall I also use my own means to trace the girl?”
“Which are?”
“A prophecy fire, sir.”
“Very well. Do as you will.”
“Sir, if I may…” ventured Paget, wringing his hands. “If word reached Lady Arbella of your dalliance with—” he began, but Drax cut him off.
“Stop fretting. Amelia is a peasant, a pleasant diversion, and I am enjoying her company while I wait to be married. There’s no harm in that.” In an unusually friendly gesture, Drax took his page’s arm and guided him to the door.
C H A P T E R 16
The white face of Lady Mortain came close. She kissed Cess on the cheek with lips that were freezing cold. They left a shining mark that started to bleed. Cess stared down at her hands; they were holding the pendant but turning black as she looked, and blistering. Two dolls—no, people—burning, the stench of singed hair, red. A blade at her heart. A witch’s tool. She was falling, burning, dying…
“Shut up!” hissed Jasper hoarsely, his hand clamped over her mouth.
Cess’s eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright, gasping for air and flailing her arms about as if scaring off crows. She had been screaming in her sleep. Edith removed the lid from the fire, and the deep red embers glowed in the blackness of the tunnel. Cess crawled close enough to feel the heat on her eyes, and she stared at the tiny movements of red in the firewood and the gray ash paths they left. Gradually, the details of her nightmare faded.
Jasper lay back down and pulled the thin blanket up to his ears, sighing with impatience at having once again to endure the hard rock, the cold and the damp that his sleep had blocked out.
They had not been asleep long. After returning to Edith, Cess had told her all they had seen and heard, while Jasper, by the light of a spitting candle, had decoded and copied the scroll. He seemed to have accepted that his most likely chance of survival lay in fighting rather than fleeing. He had returned to the House alone to replace the scroll and cipher while Cess and Edith had talked.
“Cecily, most novices have a year to learn their craft before initiation; you will have less than a month. Alathea wishes your initiation to take place as soon as possible, if you choose to become a witch. You must learn the Goddess rune and take its meaning into your heart. It is the key to our craft.
You who seek me, the Goddess,
Know that your seeking will avail you not
Unless you know the mystery;
If that which you seek you cannot find within you,
You will never find it outside you,
For I have been with you from the beginning
And I am that which is attained at the end of the
desire.
“You have within you the world’s wisdom. To look outside yourself for answers will not help, for you must believe in your own ability to become the Goddess, divine and human.”
Cess’s heart sank at how much she had to learn. Edith recited other long runes, chants, spells, the names of magical tools she would be given at her initiation, the order of the ceremony, the strange names of gods and goddesses, and showed her clockwise and widdershins dances and the correct way to draw symbols in earth, air, and water with an athame. The darkness in the tunnel made Cess sleepy, and she had no habit of learning.
“I know you think we ask too much of you,” said Edith gently, “but this was the religion of your ancestors, so deep in your heart you already know what I am telling you.”
Although Edith had not mentioned it again, neither of them was any closer to uncovering what secret power Cess held that would aid them in their fight. Cecily was an adequate novice, of unusual courage perhaps, but not yet displaying particular brilliance in the witch’s craft.
There were other reasons Cess had barely slept. It seemed that every time she closed her eyes the face of Lady Mortain, or Drax’s stare, or William’s disfigured body, crashed into her dreams. Cess could work out the significance of most of it, but the pendant confused her.
“I keep dreaming of Lady Mortain and of burning dolls,” she whispered.
“It might be best to return the pendant,” said Edith quietly, who was lying sleepless on the other side of the fire pit. “And burning dolls? That sounds like fith-faths. Do they look like anyone?”
“A man and a woman,” said Cess. “Maybe Queen Elizabet
h and James of Scotland?”
“Or a boy and a girl? The sorcerer Alathea and I have scried has perhaps made fith-faths of you two. It is powerful sorcery and imperative that you master the art of closing your mind to it. Alathea and I and the coven can help protect you, but ultimately it will be up to you to keep him at bay.”
Cess nodded. “Edith, what was Lady Mortain like?” she asked.
Edith hesitated before answering. “Lady Mortain came from a sighted family, although she did not know it, for the knowledge of her witch heritage had been lost several generations before. But I knew it as soon as we met. Perhaps it was that that blinded me to her true nature. She worshipped her husband and children, but as her sons grew, so did her ambition for them. She crushed the kindness out of her boys, encouraging ruthless self-promotion. I remember Drax Mortain being particularly loving as a young boy, a characteristic his mother at first encouraged but later punished. When she thought all her children were dead, she asked me for a draught to take her from this world, but I could not do it. I heard she found her own way.” Cess saw a gray shadow pass over Edith’s features, a complicated mix of emotions that included sadness, anger, and regret.
A low whistle from behind her made Cess jump.
“I thought my mother was difficult,” said Jasper. He must have heard everything.
Edith managed to smile at Jasper’s quip, and pulled herself to her feet. She climbed the ladder and briefly opened the hatch.
“It is dawn,” she said, coming back down and stoking up the fire. “There is much to plan.”
“Edith,” said Cess, “this is the start of the fourth day since William was taken. I feel he is getting sick at heart and can’t last much longer. I’m not sure how we can get him out unhurt, but I have thought of a way to destroy the monks’ work.”
“Why don’t we just smash it?” said Jasper.
“Because you will almost certainly catch the disease if you are in the room when the vials are broken,” Edith replied.
“In the house we heard Sir Nathaniel talking about the fireworks for the Queen’s visit,” said Cess. “Could we steal them to blow up the cellars?”
“Petards!” said Jasper, looking admiringly at Cess for the first time. “I know all about those. I used to make them—small ones.”
“You made petards?” said Cess, disbelieving. “What did your mother say?”
Jasper looked sheepish for a moment. “She didn’t know. Until I blew up the privy.”
Even Edith stopped working and stared.
“Was anyone in there?” asked Cess, horrified.
Jasper burst out laughing. “Yes, a man wooing my mother. It was not long after my father died; I didn’t like him.”
“Was he hurt?” asked Cess.
“His bottom was burned, and his clothes were ruined because he fell into the cesspit. But we got him out before he drowned. It was his pride that was really hurt.”
“Well, at least your education will prove of some use,” said Cess.
“Indeed, I hope so. And perhaps you would like me to teach you the alphabet?”
Cess smirked. Jasper was rude, but she felt quite in awe at him for blowing up his mother’s suitors, although she would never admit that to him. Edith threw some small yellow flowers into the pot and allowed them to steep for a while before pouring cups of steaming liquid for them all. “Chamomile tea, soothes the nerves. Petards might work,” she continued soberly, “but they will take a little while to make. I have called the coven, but they cannot convene immediately, and I fear we must seize William fast or, as Cess has warned, it will be too late. Whoever seeks you at the House, they are sure to send out dogs. I shall make a mix of strong-scented herbs to put them off your trail. There is also the matter of food. There is none left.”
The three sat in silence for a while, a little stunned by the tasks and problems that beset them.
Cess sipped her tea. “Perhaps we should visit Goodman Joliffe,” she said. “He might give us food.”
“Nicholas Joliffe?” said Edith, surprised.
“Who is he? Can he be trusted?” asked Jasper.
“I think so,” Cess said, remembering the cart journey to Yeovil and the farmer’s bruises. “He has something against Drax Mortain, to do with the murder he was accused of years ago. He is unlikely to betray us to his enemy.”
Jasper took a sip of his tea and spat it out. “What is this evil brew?” he gasped, puckering his lips. He looked so funny that Cess laughed. “By the way, I think I have worked out why the scroll is so precious to Lord Montacute and to his son. It’s a list of names, sorted by degree. Nobles and gentlemen at the top, yeomen and craftsmen last,” he explained, taking a sip of small beer to rinse away the taste of the tea.
“Who are they? Why the secrecy?” asked Cess.
“I think they are his spies.”
Cess had to admit that Jasper really was very clever. “So the rumors about him are true. He is one of the spymasters to the Queen.”
“It seems so. His job is to discover plots against her life and keep her safe. He suspects his son is up to something, and from what we heard, his web of spies is working night and day to find out what. He is worried”—Jasper almost chuckled—“that the Queen’s greatest enemy is hiding behind the spider itself.”
C H A P T E R 17
The night air was cool and damp. It must have been raining. Dogs had been baying around the forest all day, and so Cess and the others had not even dared poke their noses out of the tunnel. As she slid down the mountain, she had to hold on to branches and brace her feet against tree roots to prevent herself falling. It was only just dark. She could hear the noisy rustling of night creatures. She felt light-headed and shaky. Her stomach growled. She had not eaten a proper meal since the day she left for Yeovil. As she walked, she sprinkled Edith’s masking scent behind her and rubbed it into the wet leaves and rich earth of the forest floor.
The witches of Edith’s coven were helping her, taking it in turns to keep watch day and night to protect her against the sorcerer who was pursuing her. Cess was able to tell when one witch finished a shift and another joined. Coven members lived as far as three or four miles away, but Cess could feel their presence as strongly as if they were walking quietly beside her.
As she came to the edge of the forest, she stopped. From this vantage point she could see for miles. The moon, a few days off full, gave good light and the clouds were high and thin. In the near field were rabbits. An owl was above and behind her, preening and hooting. She could hear but not see a she-fox two fields away. The windows of the House were dark. She was not surprised, for the main chambers were on the side she could not see. Jasper and Edith would be leaving soon to go there. She hoped her descriptions of the yard were good enough for them to find the correct stable and that it was not locked or guarded. There was still so much to do if they were to get to William.
She looked across the fields to her right. She could see Goodman Joliffe’s farm. Through the slats of one shutter she thought she saw a glow, but it was too far away to be sure. The most dangerous part of her route would be crossing the lane that cut between the mountain and his farm. Beneath her, the village was dark; no smoke came from any of the roofs, and there were no human sounds. The dogs were silent, the pigs sleeping, the chickens roosting in their coops or beside their owners’ beds in the ramshackle cottages and hovels.
Her mother’s cottage was to her left. The urge to visit her, to whisper in her ear that she was safe, to kiss her and beg forgiveness for the trouble she had got herself in, was almost overwhelming. As she looked with longing at the cottage she knew so well, she felt her scalp prickle with fear. What was it? Her intuition was warning her of something her eyes could not yet trace. Then she saw it. The tiniest movement farther along the lane, between the church and the inn. Someone was edging down the lane, keeping to the shadows. Cess’s already thumping heart sped up, and sweat prickled under her arms.
Before moving, she looked more
carefully at the route to the farm. Nothing. As quietly as a fox, she moved inside the fringe of the forest until she was as close as possible to the fields that led to the lane. She crawled on her stomach across the rough grazing land between the trees and the hedgerows. Crouched on hands and knees, she stuck to the shadows, pausing frequently to listen. When she reached the lane, she squatted inside the hedge until her breath was silent. As her heart quieted she knew beyond doubt that she was not alone. The cloaked figure she had seen was now near the stile, walking toward her with light steps. Then she heard a voice. The figure was talking to itself as if to steel its courage. Cess cowered back as the figure walked so close to her she could smell its scent: lavender, fine wool, and fear. Although the cloak and hood hid the person completely, Cess knew immediately who it was. Amelia.
Her cousin climbed over the stile inches from where Cess hid. She walked slowly up the hill, still muttering to herself to keep at bay the fear of being out alone at night. As soon as Amelia had rounded the bend in the hedge, Cess took a deep breath, vaulted the stile, shot across the moonlit lane, and plunged into the shadows of Joliffe’s track. She ran as swiftly as a frightened deer to the farm and hid until she got her breath back. She had been right about the glow from the shutters, but there were no voices.
Even in the dark, the place looked dilapidated. The courtyard was weedy where cobbles were loose. The barn doors were off their hinges, the well needed repairs, and the water trough beside it was leaking. The farmhouse, once a fine two-story building with a large chimney stack, now had broken or missing slats in the shutters and graying timbers.
Avoiding the front door, Cess crept to the back and tried the latch. It was locked. She was surprised—most people had no locks on their doors. She knocked very quietly. No reply. She knocked again and heard the noise of someone shifting in a chair and snoring. The snoring turned into a belch followed by swearing, and she heard the man inside heave himself to his feet. She tapped again.