James slept, and that night Isabella waited… and waited. She waited what felt like forever, and as the midnight hour passed, still Peter had not come. He had told Isabella theirs was a hopeless love, a forbidden desire, doomed from the start. Yet he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Had he not admitted as much that very afternoon?
Isabella continued to wait, for several long hours further, and then she realised, with desperation, that Peter was not coming. Possibly, he felt the risk too great on this night of the full moon. Perhaps he had been waylaid en-route. Maybe he had decided to end their relationship.
Unaware of the shadowy, dagger-wielding figure who trailed behind her, Isabella entered her bedchamber with a despondent sigh. By the time she realised there was an intruder it was too late; Isabella’s last strangled scream echoed around the still peacefulness of the darkened house as the long blade of the dagger pierced her heart.
At the opposite end of the shadowy passage, a door opened and James appeared, wearing only a nightshirt, wiping the sleep from his still half-closed eyes. The candle he carried illuminated the passage with a soft, flickering glow; his bare feet made barely a sound on the wooden floorboards as he padded softly in the direction from which the shriek had emanated.
‘Halt!’ he yelled as he saw the intruder stumble from his wife’s bedchamber.
The figure took flight, bolting down the stairs before James had a chance to react. He gave chase, but by the time he reached the ground floor, the intruder had vanished.
Mumbling and cursing, James checked the heavy oak door was secure, before hurrying back up the steep flight of stairs to Isabella’s bedchamber.
‘Fire and brimstone!’ he shouted as he saw her inert body lying on the floor. Setting down the candlestick on the desk near the door, he knelt by her side, sensing she was dead even before he touched the sticky wound in her chest, from which blood still seeped. Tears spilled from his eyes as he pulled her body up and held her close, cradling her. ‘Oh, my poor Isabella,’ he sobbed. ‘Who can have done this to you?’
James knew, of course, that there was surely only one person in the world who would want his beloved Isabella dead, and be able to disappear into thin air: Samuel Wylams.
*
The villagers knew James could not have murdered Isabella – his grief was too great, and his all-encompassing love for her was too strong for him to have possibly committed such an heinous crime.
When word reached King Henry concerning Isabella’s death, he dispatched a letter containing his heartfelt sorrow, promising to do all within his power to find the killer and bring him to justice.
James met with the Monarch to disclose his suspicions about Samuel Wylams. The King was willing to have issued a warrant for Samuel’s immediate arrest and execution, but James protested: for the sake of Isabella’s memory, he wanted to be certain that Samuel was the murderer.
‘And how, pray tell us, can it be proved that this Samuel Wylams killed our beloved Isabella?’ the King demanded.
‘Majesty, I beg of you, please ask me not to answer your question. Knowledge of my methods would surely lead to my own death. Be mindful only of what Isabella would think should an innocent man be condemned to death.’
King Henry nodded his understanding. ‘I shall ask no further of the task that lies afore you. I shall remain blind for one reason alone, and that is for you love Isabella, as I once did, with all your heart!’
‘My humblest thanks, Your Grace,’ sighed James as the King collected his luxurious fur-trimmed cloak around him and swept imperiously from the manor.
*
It went totally against all the beliefs James held true to his heart to seek the assistance of such foul a creature as Thaumaturgia Anathemas. Neither man nor woman, but rather something in between, Thaumaturgia was allegedly born cursed with visions; a supposed soothsayer; a seer who could see into the dim and distant mists of the past; a necromancer who could see far into the future by conjuring images of the dead. Abilities such as these had allowed Thaumaturgia to survive untouched by witch-hunts for many more years than even the locals knew.
Born in another time, another place, Thaumaturgia’s powers manifested themselves at puberty. She saw dead people who told her of future events; she could cure illnesses, sometimes with a mere touch of her hand; she would sometimes enter into a trancelike state, apparently overcome by spirits from the nether world.
One night while she slept, those who feared her burgeoning powers banished Thaumaturgia to the Waste-lands of the West. Having seen her own future – the past – she knew she would be safe.
She departed those Western Lands in which she found herself, travelling for many days on foot until she arrived at the edge of a valley. She surrendered to her fatigue in the welcoming bosom of the darkened caves part way up one of the two hills that formed the side of the valley, and when she awakened some considerable time later, she found the valley floor had sprouted a fully-grown forest. Not knowing how long she had slept, she found assistance from a most unlikely source. Her mother appeared in the guise of a mysterious old woman named Elen, helping her to eke out an oddly comforting existence in the caves, nurturing her developing powers. Hidden from prying eyes by the trees that now grew, twisting and turning in a snakelike formation, all the way from the main valley forest up to the crest of the hill, Elen guided Thaumaturgia throughout her life, revealing her own secrets and hidden truths, until her death. Thaumaturgia buried Elen at the foot of the hill, and the next day a magnificent oak had sprouted, fully grown, and Thaumaturgia knew in her heart that her mother was not really dead and would one day return to her.
As the years rolled by, the inhabitants of a nearby village became aware of Thaumaturgia’s existence. The locals knew she dwelled some place outside of the village, and though none were entirely certain of the exact location, they knew it was somewhere in the hills to the west of the village, the highest being Wicca Hill, allegedly home to countless covens of witches, the other which became known locally as Serpent’s Crest. Few people were brave enough to venture into the forest – which the locals came to call Dead Man’s Wood – haunted by the spirits that Thaumaturgia conjured while viewing images of the future, but which, for whatever reason, had been unable to return to the spirit world.
It was her choice to use the powers she possessed for good that saved Thaumaturgia’s life, as well as her soul. The villagers treated her with more than a degree of mistrust, only seeking her services when all other hope was lost. They tolerated the hermaphroditic hermit’s existence for one reason alone – the soothsayer could cure all ills, and never once misused her peculiar talents. Any villager who should fall foul to a particularly virulent illness that the local physician could not cure, would be left at the edge of Dead Man’s Wood for two days, three at the most. They would then be either dead – snatched from the jaws of salvation by any number of possible creatures of the night – or else would return to the village with all traces of illness gone, but no memory of what had befallen them.
Few people had actually seen Thaumaturgia in the flesh, though those who claimed they had decreed the female half to be incredibly beautiful while the male side was the most hideous, deformed apparition imaginable. They maintained that the Seer was an abomination, sent back down to the wastelands of the Earth instead of dying at birth because its soul was too pure to be damned to the fires of Hell, but with a form too hideous to admit into the Heavens.
Through her powers as a seer, Thaumaturgia knew how the villagers portrayed her, and it amused her. Perpetuating the myth that she was hideously deformed kept the villagers at a distance.
She saw James approaching the edge of Dead Man’s Wood, and she saw him pause for a great length of time, trembling with fear. Thaumaturgia smiled as she viewed the images swirling up from the flames of the fire that burned at the very heart of her lair. She could tell James bore her no malice; indeed, he actively sought her out for assistance.
Her eyes closed, Thaumaturgia
sat cross-legged on the floor of the cave before the fire, and opened her mind to James. Whispering softly comforting words of encourage-ment, she guided him into Dead Man’s Wood, through the densely packed trees that seemed to close in around him like a crowd on market day, across the valley floor, beseeching him to ignore the wailing and screeching that came from both above and below.
James knew the whispering in his mind was Thaumaturgia Anathemas, helping to guide him through the forest, but it was still as unnerving as the forest itself. The densely packed trees through which he squeezed himself were now so tall and unyielding that the light had diminished to little more than a midnight glimmer overhead.
He had no idea where he was going, and he could see nothing in front of him. Only the voice in his mind prevented panic as he thrashed blindly ahead, trying to find his way back out of the forest. He knew that would be impossible though, for there was no way he was going to find his way out of this impenetrable labyrinth of trees without help. He was completely at the mercy of the very Seer he sought.
He paused to scratch irritably at his neck. He had chosen to wear clothes he had not worn since before he and Isabella were married. The coarsely woven fabric prickled against his skin, adding to the discomfort from the twigs on low hanging branches that scratched at his face as he passed them, and the odd crawling sensation he felt under his skin from the uneasy feeling that unearthly eyes other than those of Thaumaturgia Anathemas observed his progress.
His body jolted as the wailing started again, and he moved on hurriedly. He moved too quickly, stumbling over the roots of a tree, and fell to the ground. It had been raining for the whole of the first week of October, and even under the dense canopy of foliage, the ground was slippery with the slime of fallen leaves. The hands he put out to cushion his fall squelched into the muddy ground.
Something shadowy moved ahead of him, and he stumbled backwards fearfully.
Pay no heed to these noises about thee, for the spirits within the forest shall harm thee not.
James recovered his composure as he regained his footing on the slippery ground, moving forward once more, but then lost his footing yet again and slid some distance down a steep embankment.
‘Damnation!’ he snapped, rising shakily to his feet yet once more, shifting his posture as the dampness of the sticky mud started to seep through his baggy knee-breeches and the back of his hopsack doublet and jerkin, through to his hose and under-shirt.
Somewhere ahead he heard distinctly the sound of someone sniggering at his misfortune. ‘Is that you, Thaumaturgia Anathemas? You might offer some assistance!’
Vaguely visible through the trees not far ahead of him, a figure appeared. Even in the gloom, James could see the figure was skinny with malnourishment, stooped with age, barefoot and dressed in mud-splattered robes that were worn and threadbare in places, patched up in others. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out more. Ominous eyes glowed red in the darkness, well adjusted to seeing in the dark, much like those of an owl or cat.
If the rumours were true this Seer had lived for well over one hundred years, plenty long enough for her sharp senses to attune finely to her surroundings. With the wizened features that he could discern from both this distance and in the twilight of the forest, the Seer might actually have not eaten in the past one hundred years. The closer they drew towards each other, the more James could see.
Thaumaturgia Anathemas looked not a day younger than one hundred and fifty to James, yet at the same time curiously also looked a good deal younger, with skin that was whiter than the purest form of alabaster, clear of blemishes; craggy with deep furrowed wrinkles from one angle, soft, flawless and childlike from another. Sunken eyes that had glowed red now seemed deep-set and pink. Thin colourless lips drew back into a grin to reveal a set of perfect teeth, not rotten and decayed with age and neglect as James would have imagined. The slight wispy white beard, resplendent on the slightly masculine jaw line, matched the wild untamed hair, whiter still than even her skin.
‘James Trevayne wishes to counsel with The Witch of the Woods?’ Thaumaturgia’s clear voice carried effortlessly on the vaguest breath of breeze filtering though the trees. It was a voice of such pure beauty that James was momentarily stupefied, bewitched by its resonant innocence. He had fully expected a witch’s cackle, not the voice of a child, even though he had already heard it within his mind.
James recovered his composure. ‘If you are indeed The Witch of the Woods, then you know that which I seek from you.’
‘Indeed.’ Thaumaturgia turned on her heel, moving swiftly away. ‘Come, follow.’
James struggled to keep up with the woman. Stooped with age she may have been, but she moved more swiftly through the trees than a rabbit escaping a chasing fox. ‘Please, I implore you, slow your pace,’ he cried after the rapidly disappearing figure ahead. ‘I am not accustomed to such exercise!’
That much be in no doubt!
‘Please, stop entering my mind!’
I shall do much more than enter thy mind afore I be finished with thee.
James halted in his tracks. What did Thaumaturgia mean by that ominous comment? Suddenly he was not so certain he had made the right decision seeking her counsel after all.
Linger not, James Trevayne. Fouler things than I dwell within the borders of these woods.
A sudden piercing shriek of unearthly quality echoed not ten feet from where James stood, ear splitting in its intensity. He did not linger. ‘I thought you said the spirits here would harm me not,’ he gasped as he tried to locate the Seer. He realised he had lost her in the gloom. ‘Where are you?’ There was panic in his voice, though he wished he could have called to her without revealing how terrified he actually was.
Thaumaturgia appeared suddenly at his side. ‘I speak not of the spirits!’ she whispered in his ear, standing upright, making him jump as her breath touched his skin. ‘Thou doest know the foe of whom I speak!’ she continued as she towered above him, looking down on him, fixing him with a disdainful look. ‘Be he not the reason thou hast sought me out?’
James gazed up at her in awe and dread. Dear Lord, just how tall is this woman? No longer was she the epitome of ancient life.
Burden thyself not with such trivial notions as my height! There be much to do this night. Come!
Thaumaturgia took hold of his hand, and suddenly James felt as though he were floating on air. The Seer whisked him through the trees so fast his feet barely moved. They were certainly not touching the ground. He tried to relax, though it was almost impossible, and he had to remind himself that he had come for this woman’s help to prove that Samuel Wylams had murdered Isabella. He had trusted in her powers before he had set out, even though a degree of doubt had lingered, even as her mind guided him into the woods. He should trust in her powers even more now that he had finally met her – but something gnawed at the pit of his stomach: a sense of foreboding; a sure and simple knowledge that something was approaching to converge with his life and shape whatever destiny he might have. Samuel Wylams had surely to be involved – and that was the fact that terrified James the most.
Trouble thyself not with thy fears. They be not unfounded, true, but shouldst thou give in to them then all shall be lost!
James did not realise he had shut his eyes tightly until he felt all movement cease and found himself opening them to take in his new surroundings. It was quite clear they were part way up one of the hills; the trees were not quite so dense, and he could make out the valley below. He could see from this vantage point that there were more trees than he had ever imagined. Nobody liked to venture up any of the surrounding hills, and so an aerial view of Dead Man’s Wood was rare indeed. He could see Wicca Hill in the distance on the other side of the valley, and knew that on the farthest side of that hill dwelled Samuel Wylams.
He turned to face Thaumaturgia, who awaited him at the entrance to a cave. ‘This is your lair?’
‘This be my home. It has been my home for many
more years than I care to recount. Come, thou must follow me.’ When still James lingered, Thaumaturgia smiled. ‘Thou must trust in me if thou dost wish to know the truth about the murder of thy wife, James Trevayne. Thou hast nothing to fear from me!’
James took a deep breath and followed the woman into the darkness. The passage twisted steeply down and to the left. Instantly his vision was plunged into pitch-blackness, so he stayed close to one side of the passage, carefully feeling his way along the craggy rock walls, longing for some kind of illumination. It was all right for Thaumaturgia and her splendid vision that allowed her to see in the dark.
My splendid vision be a curse, James Trevayne!
It was becoming tiresome to have Thaumaturgia within his head, so James decided it was best to keep his mind empty of thoughts.
Suddenly, up ahead the passage curved around to the right, and James could clearly see the orange glow of flames as the light they cast licked around the entrance to the main chamber of the cave. His resolve faltered slightly as the surreal shadows thrown up by the flickering flames danced threateningly around him. Walls, floor and ceiling were alive with menacing images of his making. Nevertheless, he had come this far, he had to go through with this. If he kept his mind on the task in hand, he would think of nothing but the good deeds that the Seer had purportedly perpetrated over the years, and so, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward into the main cave.
A decidedly pungent odour of herbs, spices and burning flesh immediately overwhelmed James, and he fought the urge to retch, fervently hoping the flesh was not of human origin. Coughing violently, he swallowed bile as it rose in his throat.
A large fire burned on a raised rock dais at the centre of the cave. Fanned by a breeze, the acrid smoke that billowed around spiralled ever upwards. There seemed to be no way for the smoke to escape the cave, so it lingered, accumulating well above head height, and as far as James could ascertain, above the swirling smoke the cave seemed to go on endlessly upwards, disappearing to be devoured by deeper darker shadows.
Master of the Scrolls Page 13