The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  As Ankerita concentrated on the image, she could see green eyes, red hair and a rather drawn face. Old memories triggered. “Genet, the witch...?”

  “I’m not a bloody witch. How many more times must I tell people? I’m an enchantress, a wise woman, a spellbinder. Look at my face. Can you see any warts? Can you see a broomstick? Can you see pendulous dugs hanging down to my knees? I’m not a bloody witch, do you hear?”

  “Okay, okay.” Ankerita sat back. “Shall I simply call you Genet, and we can forget about the job description?”

  “If you want.” The apparition sniffed. “Now, as I was saying, it’s about time you contacted me.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “You dozy addle-pate. You have found yourself five-hundred years in your future, and are being hounded by some of the most dangerous people, without support from the Spirit World or otherwise. I’m sure you’re perfectly fine. Why would you need help?”

  “I’ve got George. Was it you who spoke to him to save me from the thugs? Thank you for that.”

  “I managed to get through to him, eventually,” said Genet. “It was hard toil, I can tell you. Despite him working right next to the ball, he refused to listen to me at first. Petty normals; their minds are closed, you see. They don’t accept what’s right in front of them. Too busy with the day to day...”

  Ankerita tried not to take her eyes off the image.

  “I waited until he took a sneaky nap in the storeroom,” continued Genet. “I managed to get him to put his hand on the crystal, and then I could tell him about the danger you were in. He listened, thank Baal-Peor, and was able to come after you.”

  “And you did this for me?” Ankerita was incredulous. “Didn’t I hear that you were responsible for my predicament in the first place?”

  “There was an unpreganant mix-up,” snorted the witch. “You can’t trust those clay-brained vassals of the abbey to do anything right. All I could do was make sure the spell stayed in place until someone released me. It had to happen.”

  “Eventually,” agreed Ankerita, wistfully. “And has someone released you, at last?”

  “Would I be talking to you from inside this ball if I was?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You suppose right,” said Genet. “Stupid, stupid monk; he goes and kills himself, instead of taking care of the items I entrusted to him. I did my best, and made him pass the artefacts on. I made sure the book had a protecting spell. It can’t be destroyed. I believe it has come to you?”

  “It has. But I can’t see much sense.”

  “You will need my help, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “But you must have died half a millennium ago...”

  “Was murdered, by that fool of a sheep fu... farmer. But then again, you can’t slay a real witch...”

  “I thought you said you were an enchantress.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Genet looked uncomfortable. “Of course I am. Same thing though.”

  “What about those witch-trials I’ve heard about. There were a lot of women murdered.”

  Genet gave a mirthless laugh. “They weren’t witches, silly wench. Do you think real witches would let themselves get caught? And if they did, do you think they’d wait around to be crisped up by the executioners...?”

  “But...”

  “Of course not. Much too canny. If a witch lives out her normal span, she moves on to the Other World, or if she chooses, can be reborn into this one. It is only when we meet violent death that we get stuck in the in-between, waiting to ensure that we are avenged. And that’s me, here and now.”

  “So, you seek revenge?” Ankerita was wondering where the conversation was going. “Is that why you’re still here?”

  “It’s a bit late; the varlot who killed me is hopefully roasting in Hell. I cannot get to him. No, I want to live out the rest of my life in your world, and all-powerful as I am, I’m going to have to resort to asking you to help me.”

  “And what do I get out of it?” Ankerita tried to maintain the vision, and think at the same time.

  “I’ll teach you how to read the Book, get the footpads off your tail and give you a reason or two to live... oh, and try to help you save the life of your best friend, what was her name, Joanna?”

  Ankerita grabbed the glass with both hands. “I just knew Jo was in danger...”

  “Yes, she is, like.” Genet mocked Jo’s speech habit. “It’s up to you to, like, save her, if you want.”

  “Of course I will. What needs to be done?”

  “You’ll have to find that out. It’s not urgent... yet. I’ll help if you do some things for me first.”

  “Okay.” Ankerita sighed. “I’ll help you. We have a covenant. What do you want me to do?”

  “Find this place.” Genet’s face faded and was replaced by an empty field with a few mounds in it. “These are the remains of my village. There are artefacts I need you to collect, connected to the Thirteen Treasures you are seeking...”

  “What do you know?”

  “You have recovered the Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr...”

  “I knew it was! Not just an old car.”

  “It is, but you need the others, if you are going to help your friend... and me. The Book holds the information.”

  “Then it all hinges on this?” Ankerita dared not take her eyes off the crystal to regard the tome.

  “If not, what would be the point of your rebirth?”

  “So, I’ve got the Chariot, but what about the others?”

  “The clues are there, if you can read it.”

  “Which I can’t, so how am I supposed to find this place, and them? How come nobody has discovered them yet? After all, there’s little enough left of this country that hasn’t been dug up by archaeologists or property developers.”

  “No idea and no idea and no idea,” said Genet. “I’m an enchantress, not a bloody seer. I need you to find out.”

  Ankerita felt a tickling sensation in her head.

  “I’ve opened your memory of when you lived near there,” said Genet. “You will see my village in your mind, and know where to go. If you need any extra help, use the crystal. I will guide you.”

  “And what am I supposed to be looking for?” There was no answer. The ball was clear again.

  “George, I have to go out,” Ankerita announced over the evening meal.

  “Why?”

  “Your Genet; she needs me to get some things for her, before she will help sort out my life for me. My friend’s in trouble. I can’t leave her.”

  “She’s not ‘my’ Genet,” said George. “I haven’t heard anything from her, since she told me where to find you. Have you been chatting?”

  “I had parlance with her in the crystal-ball. She told me to go and find some buried treasure.”

  “It’s not safe, Caileag. You don’t know where those hoods might turn up next. At least here, you have shelter.”

  “I can’t stay forever.”

  The man looked unhappy. “I was hoping they would get fed up of looking for you. Perhaps sit the winter out, and make a break next year? At least you will be warm and fed through the cold weather.”

  “I’ve got to go. I can’t risk anything happening to Jo, and I get the feeling that Genet doesn’t have a lot of time either.”

  “From what you have said, she’s waited hundreds of years, so a few more months won’t make any difference.”

  “But I need to help Jo.”

  “How does she fit in?”

  “She was my best friend. We worked together at a haunted pub. I had to give her the slip after that awful thing with my husband and Tox at the stone circle. You know, I couldn’t get out of the circle, and I couldn’t work out who was who. I ended up killing the wrong person.”

  “You can tell me later.” George flapped his hand. “You are convinced you need to venture?”

  “Am I a prisoner? You said I wasn’t.” />
  “Of course not.” The man stared at her. “I don’t want you in danger, that’s all. While you are here, I can protect you.”

  “I must go,” begged the girl. “Can I sneak out at night without anyone seeing?”

  “The city cameras will pick you up as soon as you leave the estate. They are everywhere, these days, spying on honest folks, as they pretend to protect us from terrorists and criminals...” George paused as he saw his companion’s bemused expression. “That’s a stolen car you have in the garage,” he concluded. “They will be on the lookout.”

  “It’s not actually,” said Ankerita. “It’s the Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr. He is long gone, and Myrddin, the guy who originally collected all the Treasures, is not going to want it back.”

  “For a sensible young woman, you do talk a load of keech sometimes.” George sighed. “It’s simply an old car that someone has souped-up.”

  “You don’t believe me, after everything you’ve seen?”

  “I believe you saw something in the crystal; after all, that Jeanette got through to me, and tipped me off; unless I imagined it, and I’m simply tuned into your brain or something...”

  “You don’t believe the evidence of your eyes?” accused Ankerita. “That car never needs refuelling. It brought us all the way down here without a refill. It also did it in the blink of an eye. We were here before I realised.”

  “Yes, yes. Tell you what, Pet, if you give me until the weekend, I’ll get some more petrol for you, in case Morgan Fanny’s car isn’t up to the job, and I’ll find some other number plates, so that the Polies don’t jump you the moment you pass one of their cameras.”

  “You’re a star, George.”

  “Aren’t I just,” he said, tiredly.

  For the next few days, Ankerita worked with the crystal-ball. When not in use, she covered it with a tea towel to keep the dust off. She also had a nagging feeling that it was watching her, but Genet had told her to use it, so for short periods, Ankerita tried to improve her abilities. When she wasn’t in the games room, she exercised on the machines in the cellar, and started to firm up her muscles. She was surprised at how quickly her strength built, as her body recovered. Some combination of her restored youth, and the strength of the boy, Tox, she had changed places with, she assumed.

  Unable to make contact with Genet again, Ankerita still managed to conjure up vague images in the ball. One of those recurring was of a woman, dark and handsome, and dressed in a very expensive suit. She would be in an office high above the streets of the city, this city, and was very close. She was peering into a monitor screen, but the screen itself held more than one picture, and they continuously changed as the woman appeared to be searching for something. “Searching for what?” Ankerita wondered out loud.

  “For you!” The woman swivelled in her chair and stared directly at her. “I will find you, never fear.”

  Ankerita squeaked and threw the towel over the ball. “That’s not supposed to happen. How can the woman see me?” She shuddered. “Unless she is scrying too. What does she want with me? Why me...? But then, why not? After all, I am unusual, to say the least. But, who is this creature?”

  There was a nagging memory that she couldn’t quite lock on to. She knew the woman from somewhere, but from where?

  That evening, George came in, looking pleased with himself. “Hen, I’ve got you those number plates, and gas for the car. I’ll fill it up, to make sure it keeps going. Where did you say you were headed?”

  “I didn’t, but from what I’ve been able to work out, I need to go west. That’s all I know. I keep going west until something comes to me.”

  “That’s very vague.”

  “Sorry. This mystical stuff is an art, not a science; I can’t be specific about anything.”

  “Of course,” said George, tiredly. “I’ll get the car ready, tomorrow, and send you on your way after dark. With a bit of luck you won’t be picked up.”

  “With a bit of luck,” mused Ankerita. “Do you have to go out tonight?”

  “Friday, best day of the week. Punters all unwinding after the hard graft, making money and forgetting they are slowly dying with nothing to show for it. Always ready for a joke or two to cheer them up. I might be late. Is that okay?”

  “It’ll have to be,” said Ankerita, nervously. “What sort of time do you think?”

  “Could be as late as four; depends on the shows and the weather.”

  “Hopefully I won’t get any visitations.”

  “I can’t see how anyone can get in. We’ve been okay while I’ve been here. Maybe you imagined those footsteps. I’ve heard nothing, since.”

  “Me neither,” said the girl. “I hope it stays that way.”

  For the night, Ankerita wedged a chair under the handle of her bedroom door, and had the big knife from the kitchen with her. She went to bed, and tried to read from a history book she’d found in the library. It was her attempt to fill in all the blanks since she had been in the abbey. She skimmed, but couldn’t concentrate, and eventually fell into a fitful sleep, with the bedside light still on.

  There was a scraping sound at the door. Ankerita sat up, suddenly wide awake. As she watched, the handle turned. She didn’t cry out, but George had promised that he would never do anything to scare her when he came home late. This was not George.

  She pulled the blankets up to her chin, and listened. Footsteps went away along the corridor. She breathed out. They stopped and came back, and past, and stopped again. She held her breath. The paces restarted and came back towards the door. They stopped outside. The handle turned again. The door shook as someone tried to open it, then the footsteps receded, and the sound faded away.

  Ankerita got slowly out of bed. She wrapped a thick dressing gown around her, and gripped the kitchen knife. “I’m not having this going on,” she muttered. “If there’s someone in the house, he’s going to get a short lesson from my trusty blade.” Her anger built up. “Sneaky bastard, whoever he is. I don’t know if it’s legal to use ‘unreasonable’ force to restrain a burglar, but either way I’ll stick him.”

  Before she could get to the door, the key turned silently in the lock. Ankerita stood bewildered. She was still a few paces away. The chair clattered to one side of its own accord. Ankerita held her knife in front of her, goose-bumps all over. “Keep away. I’ll kill you if I have to.”

  The door swung open.

  The corridor was empty.

  Ankerita heard sounds, coming towards her. The floor creaked, as an invisible weight crossed the room. There was nothing to see. She ran for the bathroom, bolted the door and leaned against it, panting hard.

  The handle turned. The girl felt the weight of a body hit the other side, as someone tried to get in. She held on grimly, wedging her feet against the bathtub. Downstairs, she heard a clock strike two. The force against the door vanished. Footsteps receded, and then all was silent.

  When her heartbeat had settled, Ankerita cautiously opened the bathroom door and peered out, knife at the ready. The bedroom was empty. She slipped into the room and looked behind the curtains, under the bed, in the cupboards; nothing. It was then that she noticed the door. It was closed and locked, and the chair was still in place.

  Ankerita did not sleep again. She sat in bed, hugging her knees, listening. After what seemed like an age, the front door opened.

  “I’m back,” came George’s voice, not too loud in case she was asleep.

  Ankerita raced to her door, kicked the chair out of the way and unlocked it. As George came up the stairs, she threw herself into his arms. “Thank goodness you’re back.”

  “What’s happened, girl?” he said, struggling to untangle himself.

  The words tumbled over themselves as Ankerita tried to tell the story. “Footsteps, a thing, felt like a man, he came into my room. When he had gone, the door was shut and locked as before, but he really came in... God, you stink.” Ankerita pushed him away. He
grinned, apologetically. “You’ve made my nightdress all smelly.”

  “Sorry, pet It’ll wash. You’ve got the other one.”

  “That little slip? It hardly covers my belly.”

  George grinned at Ankerita’s indignation. “I thought you were scared, sweetheart. What happened?”

  “Something shoved at my bathroom door. Tried to get me, but when the clock downstairs rang two, it seemed to give up.”

  “I’ll check about,” said George, “but I don’t see how anybody can get in. By the way,” he added. “We don’t have a chiming clock downstairs, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  12. Excavation

  29th November 1530

  T

  he guestroom at Leicester Abbey was silent. On a bed lay the fifty-seven-year-old Archbishop of York, Thomas Wolsey. He was under arrest for treason, and on his way to meet the king to explain himself. The archbishop was reading his Bible.

  There was a sound outside the bed curtains. He looked up, apprehensively.

  “Who’s there? Is that you, Edmund?”

  The curtains pulled back. Outside was a hooded monk, his face in shadow.

  “You’re not my secretary,” said the archbishop. “Who are you? Have you come to murder me?” He sighed. “You should; it will save the ignominy of a show trial, a few nights in the Tower, and a terminal visit to the block, as seems popular these days.”

  “Is it that certain, my lord?” said the monk. “Is there no hope for you?”

  “I have been instrumental in my own downfall,” lamented Wolsey. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I underestimated how powerful the Boleyn family are. I don’t think Anne ever forgave me for breaking up her relationship with Henry Percy either, but I was only doing the king’s bidding. I’d warrant that if I had served God as well as I served King Henry, I wouldn’t be here.”