These thoughts were hardly new. I’d had them repeatedly throughout my enchantment, but each time I had been drawn to the brink the knowledge that the witch would die kept me from taking that final step.
But the witch did not die, did she? She had merely changed her name. The spell was still the same. I was still bound by it, and to it.
If I were going to free myself, now would be the time to do so, before I was forced to make a journey I did not want to make.
My heart was breaking. The magic would never let me go, would it? This spell that Herleva had cast on me was forever, and forever was a very long time indeed.
Chapter 35
The knife was sharp. I drew my thumb across the edge of the blade, remembering the last time I had performed the same action. Death had been the result then, too – Idris’s. I sucked at the small wound, tasting the blood that welled in the tiny cut. The cat inside me stirred. I suppressed her.
It was important to me to think that, as the end approached, I was more Caitlyn than Cat. Cat was the reason death called, but it would be Caitlyn who was going to meet it.
Herleva, I have beaten you, I gloated. The witch had thought of everything when she had cast the spell on me. Everything except for one thing – the taking of my own life. It would never have occurred to her that anyone would do such a thing. Life was to be fought for, to be protected at any cost. She had never once considered that, for me, the price might prove to be too high.
I simply was not prepared to pay it this time.
How best to do this? There was a big vein running down the side of the neck, I could open that, but it might be a bit hit-and-miss without having a looking glass to see what I was doing. What about the thigh? I pulled up my skirts and inspected a leg. Maybe not…
It would have to be the wrists – I could see what I was doing, and the veins were easily visible, lying close to the surface.
Decision made, I sank back onto the bed. Ending one’s own life was not something to be taken lightly and I wanted to prepare myself before the dagger did its work. It was the only way out, but I needed to be sure it was the right thing to do. Would it make any difference to my soul if I took my own life? Maybe, maybe not. Only God could answer that, and He was not speaking to me, but I could not continue like this, living a half-life, caught in the throes of an enchantment I would never escape from.
It was time. I had to do this now, before my courage failed me.
The knife was still in my hand, the weight of it urging me on. A brief slice of pain was a small price to pay for eternal sleep.
But wait…
I would not be resting in peace, would I? I would be spending eternity in the fires of hell, as befitted a suicide, and the knowledge terrified me. The church did not allow suicides to be buried in consecrated ground, and the gates of heaven were closed to those who committed the mortal sin of taking their own life.
If I let nature take its course and let it dictate the time and place of my death, was I more likely to receive salvation or damnation? Damnation was more or less inevitable, but was I really willing to cast aside the slim chance that I might be allowed into heaven? And if the gates were indeed closed to me, was I that eager to deliver my soul into the devil’s clutches?
Dear God, tell me what to do! But God was conspicuously silent and the only person who could make the decision was me.
I put the knife down, lowering it carefully on to the bedcovers, and lay there gazing at it.
This new mistress might not be so bad, I reasoned. She might not even understand what I was when she saw me, because she’d had nothing to do with the casting of the spell and therefore she might not be familiar with familiars. I would be nothing to her, no one, just another faceless woman.
Would that be so bad? I had no idea how the spell worked, despite having been on the receiving end of it for so many years. It was clear that I was still subject to its laws and constraints, but what was not clear, was whether this new mistress of mine was actually doing the calling. How could she, when she had no idea that I existed? I had a feeling it was the magic itself which controlled me, not the witch I was cleaved to. This new one did not even appear to be aware of me.
I shot off the bed when the door slammed open. ‘William!’
He stopped his headlong dash into my small room when he saw me, though his eyes immediately went to the dagger on the bed, and he paled. He knew me better than I thought, it seemed.
‘Do not do it,’ he begged. ‘It is a mortal sin.’
‘I have already committed several of those,’ I countered, then added, ‘Worry not, I have changed my mind.’ Then, ‘How did you know?’
‘I saw your face. You reminded me of a mortally injured man on a battlefield who has lost all hope.’
‘I still have hope,’ I said, wondering whether I was trying to convince myself or my duke. ‘A tiny bit.’
‘Good.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I will miss you sorely, my little cat,’ he said, and took a step forward to gather me into his arms.
I breathed in the familiar smell of him and relaxed against his chest, and I could have sworn he had grown since the last time I had embraced him. Reaching up to stroke his face, I whispered, ‘I will miss you too, my son.’
He stiffened at the word, then I heard the rumble of soft laughter. ‘It is true,’ he conceded. ‘You have been like a mother to me. Take care, Lady Caitlyn, and know that if you need me, all you need to do is to send word.’
I had a feeling he would be unable to help me with my unique situation, but the sentiment was welcome, nevertheless. ‘You will make a fine king,’ I said, meaning it. He had the makings of a great one. ‘A word of advice…?’
‘Go on.’ William released me, and I saw the caution in his eyes.
‘Treat your wife with respect and do not underestimate her, and she will prove to be your greatest asset and ally.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what will you do?’
‘Whatever I am instructed to, but there is one thing I am certain of – I will not allow myself to be used against you. I will die first.’
Another deep breath, a nod, then he turned on his heel and left, closing the door softly behind him.
I never set eyes on William, Duke of Normandy, again.
Chapter 36
The summons was ever-present, but it was more of a low-level grumbling than a yell. I could tolerate it, as long as I kept doing what the spell wanted me to and heading due west. The magic seemed to be satisfied enough with that (not that it had any choice in the matter – if it wanted me to get there any sooner, it would have to send a broomstick to my aid).
The journey was a long and slow one, but I did not see the need for haste, and I rested often and fed whenever I could, which usually meant stealing into houses in the middle of the night and scoffing anything I could get my paws on. William had offered to send an escort of soldiers with me, but I had refused. A clean break was needed, although I did not object to him giving me enough silver and gold to keep me in bread and cheese for many, many months. I sewed the coins into the hems of my gown, cloak and petticoats, knowing they would be safe there if I remained Cat.
I felt strangely liberated, and almost carefree, for the weather held and the dangers were few. I was chased by a fox once, and was nearly run over by a cart in a little hamlet in the middle of God knows where, but apart from these minor incidents, I was ignored or unnoticed as I travelled along the remains of the Roman road, and followed the setting sun. Crossing the two channels was slightly trickier, but I stowed away in a waggon carrying iron ore, and endured an uncomfortable and unpleasant journey. But when I dashed off the ferry at Chepstow, the stink of the town filling my nose, another scent slipped underneath – the smell of home.
I spent no more time in the town than I needed to. The summons was stronger now, its intensity increasing the nearer I came to its source, but what was really driving me forward was the hint of heather on the wind, the smell of swift, clear strea
ms tumbling down a mountainside, the bleat of the numerous sheep grazing the hills and moorland, and the feel of a familiar wind in my face. At least this new mistress was Welsh…
England and the English were behind me now. My own language rang in my ears, so very welcome and so very long-awaited, a song to soothe my soul and ease the ache in my heart. I felt almost complete once more, as though a part of me had been missing, as though I had left a vital piece of me in this land I called home, and now that I had reclaimed it I was whole again.
I remained in this contented state, picking my way across the moors, slinking along trails made in the ferns and heather by the ever-present sheep, until a blast of thought so strong it nearly knocked me off my feet, invaded my mind.
Yes!
I had grown accustomed to the low-key call of the magic, more or less inured to the subtle insistence which drew me forever onwards. But this squawk of triumph in my head was so loud, so deafening, it nearly made me faint. It was unexpected, too, and I think that was what shocked me – I was totally unprepared for it.
I halted, my ears swivelling. I was on a rough track which had crested a break in the moors and was dropping down into a lush, verdant valley with the glint of a small river running through it. A gaggle of homesteads were strung along its length, with a cluster of them a little further along, indicating a hamlet or village.
My new mistress was down there. I could sense her, feel her nearness, feel her glee and her excitement. There were no real words, like I had experienced with Herleva; it was more like emotions and feelings rather than coherent, logical thought, an awareness, a presence in my mind.
It was time to change. I refused to go into this village and meet the witch as a cat. I wanted to hold my head high and look her in the eye. No doubt, in a place this small, questions would be asked of me, but it was up to her to answer them. I hoped she had a story prepared, because I had no intention of living the next few months or years as Cat – not if I could help it.
She might be a witch and I might have to do her bidding, but somehow I had the impression she was not particularly powerful, and as I made the necessary changes to my appearance, I prayed that was truly the case. It could be that each successive mistress would be less powerful than the next, until the magic was so diluted it was no longer able to contain me. One day, I might be free of it, if I waited long enough and held my nerve.
It was a glorious late summer’s day when I walked almost carelessly to my next mistress, my feet stepping on the rough path, taking me unthinkingly to her. I was rather brash, slightly cavalier, and over-confident. I was so certain this mistress would not know what to do with me, would be unable to handle me, that when I saw her, I gave her a self-assured grin.
She was older than I had thought, much older, and as I grew closer to the figure sitting on a stool in front of a run-down, dilapidated shack, a babe swaddled in her arms, my smile grew wider. She maybe had ten years left in her before she died and I would have to go through the whole process again. Hopefully, the next witch after this one would possess such feeble magic that she could not really be called a witch at all.
I was unsure whether this one actually deserved the title, either. Herleva had radiated menace. It had been woven into her skin, her eyes, her demeanour. Arlette had had it too, although hers had not been as strong.
With this one, I felt nothing.
I kept my expression neutral, although I was smiling inside, but when I grew closer still, my grin faltered.
Something was not right…
‘Yes?’ she croaked, as I approached, her rheumy eyes full of suspicion. ‘What do you want? I’ve got no food, if that’s what you’re after.’
I believed her – she looked as poor as a church mouse, as my mother used to say. Her clothes were nothing but rags, and she wore simple wooden clogs on her feet. Her hair, what I could see of it poking out from under her rag of a coif, was white, matted, and dirty.
I looked around, checking no one was close enough to hear what I was about to say. ‘I am your fa—’
The word refused to leave my lips. It was stuck in my throat and no matter how hard I tried, I could not spit it out.
Strange… It felt as though the magic was preventing me from speaking, in the same way it had done in the past when I had attempted to say something that would cause my mistress harm. Except, this was my new mistress who I was trying to explain my presence to, so why wouldn’t the magic let me?
Ah, she was not the witch after all. My mistress was inside the hut – that would explain it. She would be younger then, if she was the little one’s mother, and my inner smile faded entirely.
I jerked my head towards the sleeping child in her arms, the tiny face peaceful with its fluttering eyelids and gently pursing mouth. ‘Can I speak with the babe’s mother?’ I asked.
The old woman snorted. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘I… er… have come to…er…’ What was I to say? I had no idea how to explain my presence or what I was. I had expected the witch to recognise me without being told, but with no witch in sight, I did not know what to do. But she was here, I felt her presence, a low evil resonating in the air.
‘Can I speak with her?’ I repeated. ‘I have money.’ I held out the few coins I had in my pocket.
‘She’s dead,’ was the gruff reply.
Oh. ‘I am s…sorry,’ I stuttered. The witch was not the babe’s mother then, but where was the woman I sought? She had to be close, I could feel her. Maybe there was a wet-nurse inside, to provide milk for the infant…
‘My daughter passed on five months ago, giving birth to this one,’ the old crone said, her expression grim. ‘What did you want her for anyway? What did she have to do with the likes of you?’ Those faded eyes were filled with distrust and more than a little fear.
She was scared of me, and I did not blame her. I was unaccompanied, well-dressed, and clearly of better breeding, and as such it was unheard of for a woman like me to be out alone and wandering the countryside. She had every right to be suspicious.
‘Who are you?’ she continued, when I didn’t answer.
I could not, because I had no idea what to say to her, or what to do next.
When my silence continued for longer than was necessary, her weather-beaten face began to pale and her mouth began to tremble. She crossed herself, and shrank back.
‘Here, take it,’ she cried, thrusting the infant at me.
Eh? I shook my head. I did not want her food nor the child. What I wanted was to find my new mistress.
‘Are you faerie?’ she asked, her reedy voice cracking, the stink of fear heavy in the air.
She was terrified of me, and although I could understand she had a right to be scared, the depth of her terror left me speechless. I thought her heart might give out on her at any second.
‘Take it, take it,’ she insisted. ‘That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? The brat? She’s yours and you’re welcome to her. I knows evil when I sees it, and you are made for each other. Here.’ She held the child out and gave it a shake. Then, seeing I had no intention of taking the baby from her, she slowly leaned forward and placed the infant on the ground at her feet.
‘No, I—’ Once more, I was unable to speak, although whether it was because of the spell or because I had no idea what to say, I could not tell. But I was shaking my head and backing away, even as the infant stirred, its little face screwing up into a yawn.
Then it opened its eyes, and I stared into them in shock.
I had found my new mistress.
THE END
Historical Note
William’s claim to the English throne was not straightforward. William’s great-grandfather, Duke Richard I of Normandy, sired both Richard II (who was William’s grandfather) and Emma, who married the English King, Aethelred, and subsequently gave birth to Edward and Alfred. So there was no direct blood descent between Edward and William, although they were first cousins once removed. However, William wa
s the closest thing England had to an heir while King Edward remained childless. It is understandable though, that England was not happy to have a Norman as the king in waiting.
Godwin too, thought he had a claim, especially since he was of Danish descent, as was England’s previous two kings, Canute, and Harthacnut, and the Danes did not necessarily stick to bloodlines when it came to handing down a crown. They believed in a man’s fitness and suitability for the job. And Godwin certainly was fit and suited.
It was this squabble for the English throne which ultimately led to the greatest invasion England had ever known, that of the Norman Conquest in 1066.
As for William and Matilda, legend claims that when Duke William of Normandy (later called “the Conqueror”) asked for Matilda’s hand in marriage, she refused, stating that she was far too high-born to consider marrying a bastard. After hearing this response, William rode from Normandy to Bruges, found Matilda on her way to church, dragged her off her horse by her long braids, threw her down in the street in front of her flabbergasted attendants and rode off.
Another version of the story states that William rode to Matilda’s father’s house in Lille, threw her to the ground in her room (again, by her braids) and hit her (or violently battered her) before leaving. Naturally, Baldwin took offence at this; but, before they could draw swords, Matilda settled the matter by refusing to marry anyone but William. Matilda and William were married in 1053.
I’ve used an amalgamation of these two stories in A Stain on the Soul.
Brihtric was, in fact, a real person, and, it is rumoured that when Matilda was between 15 and 18, King Edward of England sent an ambassador to Flanders, Brihtric Mau, who was a rich Anglo-Saxon thegn. Apparently, Matilda fell in love with Brihtric and without telling her parents, sent him a message asking him to marry her. He rejected her proposal. Whatever the truth of the matter, years later when she was acting as regent for William, she is said to have used her authority to confiscate Brihtric’s lands and throw him into prison, where he died.
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