A Secret History of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  Because she had puzzled out the instructions once before, it took her only fifteen minutes to write out the recipe in contemporary French:

  Take three leaves and two flowers of coltsfoot, along with an inch of the root; add three inches of lovage root, well dried; flowers of lady’s mantle; three spikes of mullein; and a twig of mistletoe, crushed. Mix with water that has been boiled and cooled, and let rest on the altar until the morning star rises.

  Irène left the grimoire where it was while she ran to the pantry to see what herbs were available. She found everything she needed except mistletoe, but she had seen a great misty-green cloud of it hanging in the crook of a double-trunked elm. She seized her hat and the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer, and hurried out.

  She thought the fox might appear to guide her on this errand, but there was no sign of him. It didn’t matter. She knew where the mistletoe hung. It was only five minutes’ walk into the forest, and a matter of moments to slice two thick stems. She dropped them into her apron and was back in the kitchen before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Within the hour she had sliced and chopped and crushed and measured, and set her mixture to steep in an amber glass jar. She corked the jar and carried it to the altar in the root cellar. Before she left it, she let her fingers linger on the glass for a moment. It seemed to vibrate under her fingertips, as if something were alive in the liquid. She whispered the last lines of her spell:

  Free me from this harsh estate.

  Guide me to my better fate.

  The jar shook with such power that it rattled against the wooden surface.

  She smiled with satisfaction and went back to the kitchen for the grimoire. Her mother interrupted her, appearing in the doorway with her now-empty basket in her hand. She stared at the book in Irène’s hands. “What are you doing with that?”

  Irène hesitated, the truth trembling on her lips, the safer lie coming more slowly to her mind. She glanced down at her ink-stained fingers. “I—I thought to work on the translations. Because the pages are fading so badly.”

  “They will fade worse in this light,” Ursule said, turning toward the pantry. “Put it back in the cellar, if you’re finished.”

  Irène hurried to obey, marveling at how simple it was to tell someone what she wanted to hear. Why speak the truth when many people would prefer the falsehood? Life would be easier for all concerned, surely.

  Sebastien would not agree. But Sebastien, as usual, was not there.

  When Tom Butler appeared at the cottage the next morning, only Ursule was surprised. Irène had heard her fox bark in the night, and felt the energy of her potion from the root cellar. Her spell was at work. When the first star of morning rose, she crept down to the cellar to retrieve the jar, and hid it in her bedroom. Now, she had only to open the door to the horsemaster and wait to hear how it was all to proceed.

  “Miss Blodwyn finds the Shire colt too headstrong for her taste,” the horsemaster said, avoiding Irène’s eyes and addressing her mother.

  Ursule said, “What does she expect us to do about it, Tom?”

  Irène stepped aside and gestured Tom into the cottage. He pulled off his cap and ostentatiously wiped his boots on the rag rug inside the door, even though his boots were cleaner than the ones Ursule had been about to put on. “You won’t be happy about this, Ursula,” he said. “Master Hughes has decided to sell him.”

  “Sell!” Ursule exclaimed. “Tom, when I agreed to breed Aramis, Master Hughes promised the foal would stay at the Grange!”

  “I know,” Tom said. “But now Miss Blodwyn …” He spread his hands and turned a pleading glance to Irène. “I’m sorry about what I said. You were right. Miss Blodwyn will never be able to handle Ynyr, and now she’s afraid of him.”

  “You should take her whip away,” Irène said crisply. “He was more frightened than she was.”

  “I still don’t know what you want us to do,” Ursule said. She was tying her canvas apron over her work dress. “The colt needs training. Can’t you persuade your master to allow you to do it?”

  “He has buyers here.”

  “Today?”

  Tom nodded. “Afraid so. Miss Blodwyn told him about Irène—”

  Ursule frowned. “What about Irène?”

  Irène carefully controlled her expression, afraid triumph gleamed in her eyes. “Blodwyn was whipping the colt, Mother. Had him in a frenzy. I calmed him down.”

  “It was like magic,” Tom said, making Ursule turn a startled look on her daughter.

  “It was common sense,” Irène said. “I gather Master Hughes wants me to come?”

  “He does.” Tom twisted his cap between his hands. “It would be a great favor to me, too. Ynyr’s a fine colt, but he has a rebellious spirit.”

  “Wait,” Ursule said. “Can’t we do something about this, Tom? What if I kept the colt here, with his sire? We could—”

  He shook his head. “I’m that sorry, Ursula. I tried. I couldn’t persuade Master Hughes to it.”

  “Who are the buyers?” Irène asked.

  When he answered, the ache began in her belly, and a private exultation swelled in her breast. Tom said, “It’s two men from a place called Morgan Hall. A Lord Llewelyn and his horsemaster.”

  “Do you think the horsemaster is good?”

  “Seems so. But Master Hughes wants to show the colt at his best, get a good price.”

  Irène said, “Give me five minutes to change, Tom.”

  “Irène—” Ursule began, but Irène hurried into her bedroom before her mother could think of some objection.

  She had washed and pressed a serge skirt, and spent some of her empty hours embroidering a shirtwaist. Wearing them together, she could claim a sort of Gibson Girl effect, and with luck Blodwyn’s critical eye would be absent from the stables. The men might not see that her clothes were homemade. She meant for them to admire her tiny waist, her high bosom, and the richness of her hair, which she took a moment to pile on her head in sweeping waves.

  She gave herself a final critical glance before secreting the corked jar of her potion in the pocket of her coat, which she draped over her arm as artfully as she could, and hoped she would not need to wear.

  When she and Tom Butler reached the stables, they found Master Hughes, a thickset, russet-headed man, standing outside the stables with two other men, one tall and dark, the shorter man with blond hair going gray and a bristling mustache. Master Hughes and the older man were smoking cigars, while the younger man stood a little apart, hipshot, his riding cap cocked against the slanting autumn sunshine.

  As Irène and Tom approached, the older men ground their cigars into the gravel. The younger one straightened and removed his cap, revealing sleepy-looking dark eyes and a shock of black hair to rival Irène’s own.

  Master Hughes said, “Irene! Good.” He turned to his companion to say, “Milord, this is the young woman Tom was telling us about.”

  Irène said, “Lord Llewelyn, I assume.” She dropped an infinitesimal curtsy. “I am Irene Orchard.” She spoke in an aristocrat’s accent not even she had known she could produce. Master Hughes didn’t notice. Tom certainly did. She felt his sidelong glance of surprise as clearly as if he had touched her arm, and she felt the quizzical glance of the other horsemaster. She gave Lord Llewelyn a glacial smile.

  He said, “Miss Orchard,” and inclined his head to her.

  No one bothered to introduce the younger man, nor did anyone speak to Tom.

  They all went into the stables, and Tom indicated Ynyr’s stall with a gesture of his head. Irène, still with her coat folded over her arm, stepped up to the stall door. She slid back the bolt and opened the door wide.

  The colt was crosstied, two thick ropes extending from his halter to iron rings set into the walls of the stall. The ropes stopped him from throwing up his head, but at the sight of Irène and the men behind her, he yanked against them, his ears laid flat and his tail switching. His neck uncomfortably extended, he stamped and kicked, una
ble to rear. The reek of his anxious sweat nearly overpowered the scents of hay and straw and oiled leather.

  Irène could see why Lord Llewelyn wanted the horse. The two-year-old was a beauty, more magnificent even than Aramis, and only a half hand shy of Aramis’s great height. The dapples on his white coat made him look as if he had been dusted with silver. His mane and tail were thick and silky, and his wide hooves a shining, uniform gray.

  Llewelyn moved into the empty stall next to Ynyr’s. He braced his elbows on the separating wall and watched as the colt snorted and kicked out with one enormous hind foot, striking the wall behind him with a jarring bang. Llewelyn jerked back with a wordless exclamation, and Tom moved forward as if to pull Irène out of harm’s way. She threw up her free hand to stop him, aware of the picture she must make, a slender dark girl silhouetted by the silver bulk of a nervous stallion.

  Irène’s performance with Ynyr the last time had been as much a surprise to her as to everyone else, but she couldn’t afford doubts now. As she stepped closer to him she pressed a hand to her bodice. Beneath her embroidered shirtwaist she wore her best camisole, and beneath the camisole, nestled against her bare breast, was the curl of the fox’s hair in its little snare of silk thread. She carried it now in a dented tin locket she had found in the pantry. She had added a bit of rosemary and a sprig of lavender to make an amulet.

  She heard Hughes mutter to Tom, “You’re sure about this?”

  “Hope so, sir. She worked magic with him before.”

  Tom was speaking metaphorically, but magic was exactly what she needed now.

  Another step brought her nose to nose with the big horse. He pulled back, snorting and pawing, sending spurts of crushed straw over her skirt. She flattened her palm over her amulet, pressing it hard against her skin, and breathed, “Ynyr. Ynyr. You know me. Remember? You know me.”

  He emitted a long, nostril-ruffling breath and stood still.

  Irène gingerly lifted her hand, fearful that when she released the amulet, Ynyr would explode again. Instead he stretched his neck toward her, sniffing at her shirtwaist as if he knew what lay beneath. “Good boy,” she whispered. “You remember.” With cautious fingers she pulled the knot on one of the ropes that held him.

  Tom murmured, “Have a care,” but she persisted. She let the rope drop, and Ynyr still didn’t move. She ran her hand down his powerful neck under his mane. His skin shivered at her touch, but he stood steady. His breathing slowed, and grew deeper. She untied the remaining rope from its ring, looked once into his eyes, then turned her back to him to lead him out of the stall.

  He followed, his head nodding above her shoulder, his steps measured.

  Master Hughes said, a little too loudly, “You see, my lord? I told you he’s a lamb. Gentle giant, this one.”

  “Let’s see about that.” Lord Llewelyn stepped forward. He smelled of cigar smoke and bay rum, and he threw out his hand as if to seize the lead rope.

  Ynyr squealed and leaped backward, jerking the rope from Irène’s hand.

  Llewelyn swore, and so did Hughes. Tom groaned, but Llewelyn’s horsemaster only stood to one side, one black eyebrow arched, watching in silence.

  Irène snatched up the rope from the straw-covered floor. She said, “Master Hughes, he was never like this until your daughter whipped him.”

  Tom began, “Irène—” but his master interrupted him.

  “Sometimes a horse needs whipping.”

  Llewelyn’s horsemaster, Jago, spoke for the first time. “Nay, sir,” he said. “Good horses do better without the use of the whip.” He turned his sleepy dark eyes on Irène and asked, “Do you need help with him, lass?”

  Irked at being called lass, when Lord Llewelyn had called her miss, Irène allowed her lip to curl. “Of course not,” she said haughtily.

  Llewelyn cleared his throat. “If we can’t manage him on a lead, we have no way of getting him to Morgan Hall. It’s two days’ ride.”

  Hughes shuffled his feet, which Irène read as a sign of anxiety over losing his sale.

  “Give me a moment, milord,” she said. The patrician sound of her voice pleased her. “Miss Blodwyn abused this colt. All he needs is to be confident there will be no more whips.”

  Hughes would resent that, but she guessed Llewelyn’s money was more important to him than the aspersion she had cast on his daughter.

  Under the cover of the folds of her coat, still draped over her arm, she slipped her hand into the pocket. As she walked back into the stall, she loosened the cork on the amber glass jar. Ynyr quivered at her approach, but allowed her to come close. She slipped two fingers into the potion, replaced the cork, and extended her wet fingers to Ynyr’s muzzle. She whispered, “Be still,” and rubbed her potion onto his lips. His broad tongue appeared, incongruously pink against his gray muzzle as he licked his lips. She let her hand slide across his wide cheek and up to scratch behind his ear.

  Under her breath, she murmured,

  Guide me to my better fate.

  Ynyr breathed a deep, horsey sigh and dropped his head so she could rub the spot beneath his forelock. “The colt will be fine,” Irène said. “If you will all step aside, please.”

  The men, as much under her spell as the horse, moved out of her way as she led the Shire out of the stall, down the alley of the stables, and into the cool sunshine. In respectful silence the men followed. Irène, as she tied Ynyr’s lead rope to the post, cast them a glance from beneath her eyelashes. Tom looked relieved. Master Hughes was frowning, bemused, but clearly eager to take his payment and send milord on his way. The sleepy eyes of Jago, the horsemaster, gleamed with interest.

  Lord Llewelyn stood with his arms folded across his vest, pride of possession already showing in his satisfied expression. He cleared his throat before he said, “Well, Hughes, I think we have a bargain. We should share a stirrup cup, don’t you think? Perhaps Miss Orchard will join us.”

  Irène said, “What a kind thought, milord. Allow me to go to the kitchen and”—she caught herself just in time—“and give the order.”

  She felt Master Hughes’s and Tom’s stunned glances burning her back as she walked away, but she lifted her head and held her skirt back with one hand as she had seen Blodwyn do. A lady, she reminded herself. She was a lady.

  She whispered again, as she walked:

  Free me from this harsh estate.

  Guide me to my better fate.

  If either Hughes or Tom gave her away, she thought, she would turn them into toads.

  7

  It was fascinating to watch the effect of the philter. Irène couldn’t think why her mother had never employed it. This, surely, would have kept Sebastien at home.

  She hadn’t dared to actually give the Grange cook an order. Sally knew perfectly well who and what she was. Irène smiled at her, explained the situation in an undertone, and begged to be allowed to carry the stirrup cup out to the men. “Five tumblers,” she said. “Lord Llewelyn has invited me to share. I know it’s not usual, but I wouldn’t want to refuse his kindness.”

  Sally chuckled. “Has an eye for a pretty girl, I suspect, though he’s hardly a young man. I’ll have it for you in a moment, and I’ll call the downstairs maid to help you carry the tray.”

  “Thanks, but don’t trouble her. I can manage on my own,” Irène said. The fewer eyes on her the better.

  She carried the heavy tray with no difficulty back over the lawn to the stables, stopping only for the briefest moment to put the tray down, slip the amber glass jar out of her coat pocket, and pour its contents into one of the tumblers. She kept a careful eye on the one she had altered, and offered it to His Lordship first, as was proper. Hughes was ebullient now that an agreement had been reached, money exchanged, the bargain sealed. He snatched up his tumbler with enthusiasm. Llewelyn was more restrained, but he drank as heartily as the others. Irène’s tumbler held only a thimbleful, and she sipped it delicately, bestowing on Llewelyn a gracious smile, as if she were the hostess a
t a tea in the Grange parlor.

  Lord Llewelyn lifted his tumbler to his lips again and again. Irène felt an aura bloom around her, a glow, as if she stood in a shaft of moonlight, cool and bright and mysterious. It was a light only she and Llewelyn could see.

  His eyes returned to her again and again. As the potion took effect, his lips beneath his mustache grew red and swollen and his breathing quickened and grew shallow. When the stirrup cup had been consumed, Irène left the tray and the tumblers on the grass, and watched with Master Hughes and Tom as Lord Llewelyn mounted his mare and Jago swung himself up on a sturdy gelding, with Ynyr’s rope in his hand.

  Llewelyn gazed at Irène as he made his farewells, though his words were addressed to Hughes. She barely heard what he said, or what anyone said, but she sensed Llewelyn’s reluctance to depart from her. She allowed her own face to mirror it, ever so slightly.

  The sun was low on the western horizon as the two men rode away with the Shire in tow. No one spoke until they rounded the turn from the drive into the road. When they were out of sight, Master Hughes whirled to face Irène. “Who do you think you are, putting on airs with His Lordship that way?” he snapped. “Insulting my daughter, giving orders to my cook—”

  “Managing your colt,” she interrupted. She treated him to her iciest stare. “Saving your sale, in fact.”

  “You know better than to speak to your betters that way! Acting as if you—as if you—”

  “As if I were a lady?” Irène spoke in a silky voice, exaggerating the nasal pronunciation of an aristocrat, and lifting her chin to show that she knew precisely what she was doing.

  Hughes began to sputter. “You’re a farm girl!”

  “And did you inform His Lordship of that?”

  “No, I couldn’t do that, not in the face of—since you—but you should know your proper place! Ursula should have taught you better!”