A Secret History of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  “If She’s there, I’m afraid She knows I don’t believe.”

  “You have to try, Ursule,” Nanette said. “I can no longer climb the tor. It has to be you.”

  “I don’t know the rite, Maman.”

  “It’s in Grand-mère’s book. There are written rites and spoken rites. I’ll show you.”

  Ursule didn’t want to do it, but Nanette persisted. Her body was failing, but her spirit was strong. She won out in the end. Ursule told herself she was giving in only for her mother’s sake as she found herself, one moonlit night in August, climbing the tor with a strong step. It had been a day of blazing sun, and the cool night air was invigorating. With no one to slow her down, she reached the top more swiftly than she ever had.

  Following Nanette’s instructions, she gave the floor of the cave a cursory sweep, and gingerly dusted off the pedestal and wiped the scrying stone, but carefully, not looking into it. She opened her pack of things and performed each of the tasks in order, lighting the candle, sprinkling the water, burning sprigs of heather and rosemary and sage. Puffs of sweet-smelling smoke circled around her, then rose to dissipate into the shadows as she pulled a scarf over her head and faced the stone. Nanette had found the rite in the grimoire, the spell for conception, and made her repeat the words a dozen times until they were memorized.

  They faded from her mind the moment she looked into the dark center of the crystal. It was there again, that beckoning spark. She leaned forward, one hand pressed to her mouth, and it swelled as if a bellows had been applied to a flame. It rose and brightened until the whole interior of the stone glowed. Ursule stared at it, not realizing she was biting her forefinger until it began to ache.

  She straightened, and the scarf slipped from her hair to pool about her feet. The words of the ancient rite filled her head, thundering to be released. She spoke them in a voice that quivered with excitement. The cave resounded so that her words cascaded back to her, piling upon one another in a mystic, manic harmony.

  Mother Goddess, hear my prayer:

  Send to me a child to bear.

  Whither it comes I do not care,

  So long as it be strong and fair.

  Three times three she proclaimed it, urged on by instinct, an instinct as old as motherhood itself. After she stopped, as the echoes faded around her, she still gazed into the stone, mesmerized. Was that a face in the glimmering light? A woman? For an instant she thought someone looked back at her, someone with a halo of grizzled hair and deep black eyes. Holding her breath, she leaned closer, but she couldn’t be sure. She searched through the light, but the image faded and disappeared as the stone gradually darkened and the light died away. Still Ursule stood, unable to tear her eyes from the scrying stone. Not until the candle guttered out did she rouse and shake herself.

  As she bent to pick up the dropped scarf, to gather her things and make her way out of the cave, she remembered her Tante Louisette’s scorn. Louisette might have accused her of inventing the entire scene, of pretending for Nanette’s sake, but Ursule knew better now. This was not her imagination. This was not a fantasy. Her spine thrummed with it, the power of magic rushing through her bones from her toes to her skull.

  She was as hardheaded a woman as any she knew, and more practical than most. She had seen what she had seen, and felt what she had felt. This was real. It would be foolish to deny it.

  The moon was gone, and dawn outlined the horizon to the east as Ursule found the path and made the descent as quickly as she could. Morcum would be awake soon. She had no way to explain where she had been, or what she had been doing. And now—now that this had happened, that she had seen what the crystal could do—she was changed. She had to hide that from Morcum, to appear the same as she had always been.

  What did it all mean? she wondered. And what would happen next?

  It hardly seemed possible that, after her experience in the temple, life could go on as usual. Everything looked different. The work of Orchard Farm, the calls of her stock, the knowing look on her mother’s face, all these things acquired significance beyond the mundane. Only Morcum—stolid, blunt, hardworking Morcum—was unchanged. For the first time in the years of her marriage, Ursule chafed at his predictability, his rigid routines, his indifference.

  And so it was that when she met Sebastien, she was vulnerable. She was ready.

  She went to the Thursday market in Marazion on her own, driving the jingle with Aramis in the harness. She left Nanette simmering blackberries for jam, and Morcum scything grass in the ponies’ pasture.

  The market was lively, the green crowded with kiosks and stands hawking fruit and vegetables, cider and bread and smoked meats. Ursule took care to arrive early so she could back the jingle into a good spot, release Aramis from his harness, and tether him where he could crop grass and drink from a bucket she set beneath a tree. She raised the gay blue-and-white canopy Nanette had made, and dropped the back of the jingle for access to her produce. She had a capacious purse beneath her apron in anticipation of a profitable day, and she arranged her wares in appealing piles—vivid red radishes, dark-green bundles of spinach, paler watercress, bunches of orange carrots with their feathery tops tied with twine.

  The cleverest housewives came early for the first pick of the farmers’ wares. By midmorning Ursule had almost sold out. She stepped to a nearby kiosk, where one of the bakers of Marazion was selling pasties, and bought herself one, hot and fragrant, wrapped in a napkin. When she turned back toward the jingle, she saw a man waiting beside it.

  She was sure she had never seen him before, which was odd. Few strangers found their way into the Thursday market. Outsiders, from Penzance or St Ives, mostly came on Saturdays, when the jewelry makers and seamstresses set up their tents.

  Ursule eyed the man as she approached. The warm pasty in her hands steamed in the fresh air, and a breeze teased strands of her hair from beneath her cap. She startled herself with a sudden wish that she had worn a newer dress, and a better pair of boots. She had to suppress an urge to take off her apron, which was clean, but stained from packing vegetables.

  “Good day to you, sir,” she said when she was close enough. She moved forward to set the pasty inside the jingle, and wiped her hands as she turned to face him. “Is there something you’d like?”

  He snatched off his flat cap to reveal a shock of fine straight hair the color of straw. Holding the cap to his breast, he bowed slightly. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  Ursule drew breath to correct him, to tell him she was madame, but then, her lips parted and her cheeks warming, she let the words die unspoken.

  He was a slight man, and no taller than herself. His eyes were a silver gray, a color she had never seen before, with long pale lashes. His cheeks were clean shaven and unlined, and even his neck, where she could see it above his neckcloth, was smooth. The hand that pressed his cap to his chest was fine-fingered. His smile widened under her regard, revealing white, straight teeth. Ursule was lost.

  In impeccable French he said, “I was told you make the best goat’s cheese in Cornwall. I hoped you might have some to sell.”

  Ursule could hardly hear his voice above the rush of her hastening pulse. She blinked, trying to recover herself, and said in a rush, “Oui, monsieur, bien sûr.” Flustered in a way she had never been in her life, she turned toward the front of the jingle, where she kept a few wrapped cheeses in a lidded basket. She stood on tiptoe to draw one out, and drew a breath to compose herself. She told herself he could not possibly be as handsome as she had first thought. She lifted her chin as she turned back to him, ready to resume the businesslike manner she used with all her customers. “Le voici, monsieur,” she said. She held out the cheese and lifted her eyes to his face again.

  It was no use. He was almost too handsome, with a delicate nose and a finely cut chin. She collected herself enough to name a price, and he replaced his cap so he could plunge his hand into his pocket for the money. As he placed the coins in her hand, the touch of his ski
n sent a thrill up her arm.

  “How did you know I speak French?”

  “A guess. You look French—dark hair, those eyes …”

  She feared her cheeks had gone as red as her radishes.

  “Je m’appelle Sebastien,” he said. He spoke in a normal tone of voice, but he contrived to make the simple introduction as intimate as if he had whispered it into her ear.

  Or perhaps she imagined that. Pragmatic, practical Ursule was shaken to her toes by the utterly unfamiliar feeling of infatuation. Her hands were busy with cheese and money, but her mind and her heart both raced. She managed to say, “Ursule,” but nothing else.

  Another customer approached, and she had to turn away to take her payment. When she had counted the money into her purse, she turned back, but Sebastien had disappeared.

  She clicked her tongue, embarrassed by the wave of disappointment that swept over her. She reached for her pasty, cooling now in its napkin, and started toward the clump of elm trees edging the green, where she usually sat in the shade to eat her midday meal. As she approached, the beautiful Sebastien reappeared. He held a cup of cider in each hand.

  “I guessed you would be thirsty,” he said. “And I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I kept you company.” He nodded to the pasty. “I doubt you’ve eaten anything today.”

  “A bit of bread and butter as I drove here,” she admitted. “Thank you.” She found a place to sit beneath one of the deep-boughed trees, and rested her back against its trunk. She wished she could take off her boots to cool her hot feet, but she was loath to reveal the state of her stockings. She accepted the cup of cider and drained half of it immediately. “I was more thirsty than I knew,” she said.

  Sebastien gave her his white smile and tossed back his own cider in one long draft. “Best to drink it while it’s cold,” he said. “Now, Mademoiselle Ursule, you eat your pasty while I do the talking. I’ll tell you everything there is to know about me, and when you’ve done with your meal, you can tell me all about yourself.”

  Ursule filled her mouth with pastry and meat filling, managing to postpone, once again, correcting him. She chewed, and drank cider, and listened to Sebastien’s easy chatter. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could be so comfortable with someone he had just met, so sure of the reception he would get. Was that because he was beautiful? Was every woman happy to sit and listen to him talk?

  She was confident enough when haggling over the price of cheese or a pony to add to Orchard Farm’s herd. But this—this was different.

  She supposed, if she herself were beautiful to look at, she might have such confidence in meeting a stranger, talking with him, sharing a drink. She had never given much thought to whether she was fair or plain. She thought more of her goats’ appearance than her own, brushing them, washing their muddy feet, tugging burrs from their beards.

  Sebastien said, “I’m a traveling musician, Mademoiselle Ursule. A jongleur, who sings and plays the harp wherever audiences gather. I was born in Paris, and made my way here by following a troupe of jugglers and acrobats.”

  The harp, Ursule thought. With her mouth full, she gazed at his slender fingers, and forgot to chew for several seconds. No wonder his hands were so clean. Just looking at the trimmed nails and the spotless cuffs at his wrists made her heart flutter. Morcum’s hands were forever stained with dirt and coal, the nails black rimmed and jagged, because he cut them with a knife.

  “And so,” he was saying, “I found myself on St. Michael’s Mount, singing for the lord’s family and teaching the harp to his children. My troupe went on without me, and I’ve stayed all the summer.”

  Ursule could picture it. The baron and his family were said to live in fine rooms, furnished with carpets and heavy furniture, with a pianoforte and a clavichord for the young ladies to play upon. She had never seen any of the St. Aubyns, but she could imagine them, richly dressed, elegant in their speech and manners. The baron must have been glad of the chance to have a well-spoken Frenchman tutor his daughters in an unusual instrument.

  She made herself swallow the last of her pasty and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. Sebastien had fallen silent, lying propped on one elbow just at her feet. He twinkled up at her as she folded the napkin. “Your turn,” he said. “I want to know all about the mademoiselle with the beautiful black curls and enchanting sloe eyes.”

  Ursule sighed and spread her hands. “There is nothing to tell, in truth, except that it’s not mademoiselle. It’s madame. I am Madame Cardew, née Orchiére, of Orchard Farm.”

  Sebastien clutched at his chest in mock grief. “Madame! But no, you are too young and too lovely to be a farmwife!”

  Ursule laughed. “I am old and work worn, sir, and you knew already I was a farmwife by the wares in my wagon. That big lad over there—” She pointed to Aramis cropping grass at the far side of the green. “That is my—our—horse, and when the last of my produce is gone, I shall hitch him up again and drive back up the road that runs along the cliff.”

  “I’ll go with you!”

  A laugh bubbled from Ursule’s throat. “And what should I tell my husband and my mother about my new friend? That he comes to play his harp for us?”

  “You could do that.” He chuckled and gestured with his thumb. “My harp is in my room at the inn, just there.”

  “I would love to hear you play, Sebastien. But not at Orchard Farm.” Ursule’s cheeks burned anew at her own daring. She had to look away, fidgeting at the hem of her apron with nervous fingers.

  “Will you wait? I can fetch my harp toute de suite.”

  “I don’t know … You won’t play here, surely?”

  He leaped to his feet in a movement so graceful she had to catch her breath. “Mais, bien sûr, mademois—I mean to say madame!” He was gone, dashing across the green like an impetuous boy.

  No doubt he was a boy, or at the least several years younger than her own thirty-four. Ursule felt a rush of shame at her behavior. She was no naive girl, to be flirting with a traveling minstrel! She was a married woman, with responsibilities. Now that Sebastien had disappeared, taking his glorious smile and beautiful hands with him, she would take herself in hand, like one of the green ponies in need of discipline.

  She got up from the ground more slowly than Sebastien had, and smoothed her apron over her skirt. She returned to the wagon to gather up the things she hadn’t sold, tucking them into baskets for the return journey. She put up the rear panel and crossed the grass to Aramis.

  When she came back, with the big stallion’s head nodding above her shoulder, Sebastien had also returned, and was carrying a small harp made of shining dark wood, strung with catgut and bristling with tuning pegs. Ursule stopped so abruptly that Aramis’s chest bumped her back.

  Sebastien jumped up onto the corner of the wagon frame, with the vegetable baskets at his feet. He settled the harp across his lap. He struck one string, then another, and twisted pegs until he had the sound he wanted. He smiled at Ursule, tucked his chin, and began to play.

  The only music Ursule ever heard was the music sometimes sung at Mass. One of Meegan’s boys played a whistle, but there had been no music at Orchard Farm, ever. No one sang or hummed. Even the chants in the temple were tuneless. Now Sebastien’s fine fingers plucked and strummed, and he began to croon a tune, something simple and sweet, a melody that turned and turned again, harmonizing with the fragile sound of the strings.

  The music filled Ursule’s ears. She found herself closing her eyes, leaning back against Aramis, listening with all the intensity she could muster. The sheer beauty of it, with the sun slanting across the green and a gentle breeze rising, made tears well beneath her closed eyelids.

  And in her head words sounded, as if borne on the slender tide of music:

  This one, Ursule. This one will give you a babe.

  It wasn’t what Nanette had intended, Ursule knew. What her mother had meant was for Morcum to sire a child on his wife in the proper way, a babe they would both love and who woul
d care for them in their old age.

  But Nanette had also said the Goddess had her own ways. Ursule understood, before the day was out, that it was true.

  Sebastien invited her to come with him to his room at the inn, but Ursule shook her head. She was known in the village. Everyone would see her. Word of her transgression would fly on the wind to Morcum’s ears, doubtless even before she reached home.

  Sebastien chuckled as he wrapped his harp. “At least let me ride with you along the cliff. I want to see you driving your great gray horse with your curls flying and your eyes shining.”

  Ursule gazed into his silvery eyes and remembered the words spoken in her mind. Her skin tingled with the wish—no, the need—to touch him. Her belly ached with the desire to press against him, to possess his beauty and his music and his lovely manners.

  She knew what he was asking. She knew what she was doing when she fastened Aramis’s harness, stepped up onto the bench, and nodded to Sebastien to climb into the back. She felt eyes upon her, but she hoped they would assume she was giving a traveler a lift, something she could explain to Morcum. Sebastien stayed in the back, perched among the empty baskets, until they were well out of sight of the village.

  The sun was setting behind them as Aramis pulled the wagon along the road. The water beyond the cliff to their right had gone glassy and smooth. In the waning light it was precisely the shade of Sebastien’s eyes. The breeze had sharpened by the time they reached the lay-by. It cooled Aramis’s withers and rump as he stood, switching his tail, while Ursule and Sebastien climbed down a little way to a level place Ursule knew.

  There was an outcropping of rock that blocked the wind, and a flat surface of fine sand punctuated by clumps of sea grass. Ursule and Sebastien took shelter there. She would be late. Nanette and Morcum would be looking for her from the kitchen windows or the garden gate. But when Sebastien smoothed a place for her to sit, and then to lie down, when he stroked her cheeks with his fine fingers, then touched her breast through her homespun dress, she banished all thoughts of her husband, or her mother, or the chores awaiting her.