A Secret History of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  “Ynyr!” she said. “You should warm up a little first.” He paid no attention, but moved even faster. She knew in her bones that Ursule was calling him, as she had called Morwen. The realization distracted her from her worry about Jago.

  An autumn mist lay over the hills along the river, and thickened over the broken ramparts of the castle. Ynyr took the slope with strong, effortless strides, carrying Morwen upward, out of the thin sunshine and into the drifting fog. She was glad of her jacket, and of the thick socks she wore under her riding boots. When they reached the outer courtyard, she slid from Ynyr’s back and unclipped the halter rope. He watched her with his head high as she approached the porch, wading through wisps of wet mist that curled around her ankles. The grass and stones were slippery with it, and the tops of the castle walls were obscured. She had to tread carefully, and didn’t look up into the porch until she was only a few steps away.

  Her grandmother was waiting for her.

  “Are you going to give the crystal back to Irène?”

  Morwen and Ursule sat together on the broken wall surrounding the outer courtyard. Ynyr grazed nearby, his ears flicking this way and that as he listened to their voices. The mist had burned off, and the autumn sunshine warmed the old stones and glistened gently on the river below the hill.

  “I said I would.”

  “Ah. You gave your word.” Ursule shrugged. “Then of course you must.”

  Morwen nodded. “Madame—”

  “You can call me Grand-mère, Morwen.”

  “I would like that. I was going to say, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you anything. Any food, or tea, or …”

  “I have food. And tea. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Ynyr lifted his head and snorted in their direction. Ursule chuckled. “My Aramis used to do that, when he wanted to tell me something.”

  “Ynyr’s reminding me I have something to ask you.”

  “You may ask me anything, my dear. I’m long past the age of keeping secrets.”

  Morwen said, choosing her words with care, “What I’m wondering about is … well … you asked Maman about me. You asked who had given me to her. She didn’t answer, and I don’t know what you meant.”

  “Ah. Yes. That must confuse you.” Ursule tipped her head back, lifting her face into the sunshine. “I wonder how much Irène has told you, ma petite? About your ancestresses?”

  “A bit. I didn’t know how much of it was true.”

  For an instant Ursule’s lip curled with disdain, and Morwen saw again the resemblance between mother and daughter. The moment passed, and Ursule breathed out through pursed lips. “I will answer you, ma petite, but it’s a long story. I want to start by telling you—” She hesitated, and the look of great age settled over her face again. “I want you to know that I loved my own mother very much. I betrayed her, though I never meant to. I didn’t believe what she told me, either, but she was right.”

  Ursule’s eyes glistened. Morwen prompted, “What did she tell you, Grand-mère?”

  “She told me, if they knew what she was, they would kill her.” Ursule turned her head to look full into Morwen’s face. “It’s true, ma petite. If they know—if they discover what we are—they will try to kill us.”

  Morwen shuddered at the thought.

  Ursule put out her hard, dry hand and patted Morwen’s where it rested on the warm stone. “It will be all right. We know how to hide.”

  “Maman doesn’t—I mean—she keeps the crystal right in her bedroom!”

  “Well. Irène knows what she’s doing, I expect. She always has.” Ursule withdrew her hand and pushed away a strand of hair that straggled across her eyes. “And now, ma petite, I will answer your question.”

  It was a long answer, told while Morwen’s legs chafed against the rough stone wall, and her back ached from sitting on its uneven surface. She didn’t dare move for fear she would interrupt Ursule’s fascinating, terrifying, compelling account of their shared history. Irene had recounted some of it, but her version had been a dry listing of names and places and events. Now Morwen listened in awe to the tale of a desperate woman casting a spell to protect her clan, holding it through the night until her strength gave out. She shed tears over the solitary grave among the menhirs of Brittany.

  The story of the clan’s journey to Cornwall, of the magical discovery of the farmhouse their grand-mère had prophesied, and of the establishment of Orchard Farm, left her breathless with admiration. Ursule said the clan believed the gift had died with old Ursule, until her own mother summoned a man by magic, a man who left her with a daughter to raise alone. “It’s our constant fear the craft will die out,” she said. “The power is passed down from mother to daughter, but I had five aunts with almost none. Only my maman had the gift, and she wasn’t sure for a long time if she would be the last.”

  She told her own story, too. She described a practical but childless marriage, a life of farming and husbandry. She admitted her skepticism of the craft, wiped away when the crystal woke for her. Morwen wept again when she heard how her great-grandmother Nanette was exposed, and gritted her teeth in anger over Morcum’s part in it.

  Though she knew Ursule’s flight had been successful, still she held her breath at the descriptions of her escape on Aramis, sire of Ynyr. She sighed over the devotion of Sebastien, her grandfather, who had followed Ursule into Wales and visited as often as his travels allowed.

  “Irène resented him,” Ursule said, with sad resignation. “She thought he should stay at home and be a proper father. But he was no farmer, my Sebastien. His hands were as soft as your own, ma petite. He played the harp, and had the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard in this world. Your maman thought he should take her with him, and teach her to play and sing. She didn’t know what his life was like, traveling from town to town, never sure where he would lay his head or who would pay to hear his music.

  “But he came back, often and often. Whenever he could.” Her eyes shone at the memory. “Sometimes he would slip in through my bedroom window late at night, and I would wake to feel his kiss on my hair, or his hand on my shoulder. I wish you had known him.”

  “What happened to him, Grand-mère?”

  “I’ve never known. One day he went off, saying he was going to play with a troupe in London town. He never returned. I think …” She sighed and turned her gaze to the sun-spangled river. “I think he died, ma petite. If he’d lived, he would have come back to me.”

  “Couldn’t you have used the crystal to discover what had happened?”

  “No. Irène was gone by then, off to become a lady. Took the stone with her. I can see a good deal, but not far enough to follow my Sebastien.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  Ursule shrugged and spread her hands. “I worked on a manor farm, you know, near Tenby. It was a hard life, but a good one. I was happy enough, but Irène was not. She had her heart set on being a lady, and when she had inherited the power, she used it to make her wish come true.”

  “I’ll give the stone back to you.”

  “Oh no, don’t do that. It doesn’t matter now, ma petite. I no longer have use for it. It’s time for me to join my mother.”

  “Grand-mère, your mother is dead!”

  “She left this world, it’s true. She’ll be waiting for me in the next.”

  “No! Not when I’ve just found you! I mean, of course, you found me, but …”

  “Morwen, this is the way life is. It is both too long and much too brief, sometimes sweet, often bitter. Try not to feel bad about it. Remember that we women of the craft have more power over it than most. And remember that there is power in words. Power in ritual.”

  “I don’t know any rituals.”

  “You will learn. Or you will not, according to the Mother Goddess’s will.” She touched Morwen’s arm with a gentle hand. “I’m tired, dear heart. I’ve held on past my time. I can feel the thinning of the veil …” She took a long, rasping breath and whispered, “Samh
ain is almost here, the harvest Sabbat, the turning of the great wheel of seasons. It’s a good time.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Morwen said.

  “I won’t be far away,” her grandmother assured her. “Just look into the stone, ma petite. I’ll be there.”

  The sun was high above the Vale by the time Ynyr carried Morwen back to Morgan Hall. The day felt like a farewell to summer, the river a glittering blue under a faded sky, the fields gold and rust beneath slanting sunshine. Morwen’s head thrummed with all she had heard, stories of love and lust, of sorrows and triumphs, her great-grandmother’s awful death, her mother’s betrayal. The crystal, which she had retrieved from the willow grove, felt heavy and lifeless under her arm.

  She still didn’t know whether Papa was really her papa. Only her mother, Ursule said, knew that, and she would no doubt carry the knowledge with her to the grave. Morwen knew almost nothing of how things stood between wives and husbands. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Jago appeared as she and Ynyr arrived at the stables. “Miss Morwen. Wanted in the hall, you.”

  Morwen had been hoping to spend some time grooming Ynyr and cleaning his box. She slid from his back and landed on the packed earth of the stable yard with an irritated thump. Usually this demonstration brought a smile to Jago’s lips, but not today. She eyed him doubtfully. “Jago? Who asked for me?”

  “I couldn’t say, miss,” he said evasively. His eyes passed over her and went straight to Ynyr. “Chesley sent your maid. I’ll take the horse. You’d best go up.”

  Reluctantly Morwen handed over Ynyr’s halter rope. As she turned away, Ynyr startled her with a long, loud whinny. She whirled back to him but saw Jago tugging on his halter rope, persuading him into the shadows of the stable. Ynyr whinnied again, his head up, his lip curling in the stallion’s challenge. He had never done such a thing before. It filled Morwen with anxiety.

  In a cloud of uneasy confusion she walked with dragging steps up through the garden and around to the entrance of Morgan Hall. She held the wrapped crystal close.

  Chesley opened the doors at her approach and stood back as she entered, his gaze somewhere above her head. “His Lordship is waiting for you in the parlor,” he intoned.

  “Thank you, Chesley.”

  “His Lordship directs you to dress. There are guests for tea.”

  “Who is it?”

  Chesley sniffed. “His Lordship will introduce you, Miss Morwen. Do you want your maid?”

  “No. I can manage. I’ll go along after I’ve changed.”

  “I will inform His Lordship,” Chesley said, and closed the door without having once met her eyes.

  Morwen trudged up the staircase, weighed down by doubts and confusion. Grand-mère had spoken of power, but Morwen felt anything but powerful. She felt as if she were living in a prison—a comfortable one, but still a prison, where she couldn’t make her own decisions, where she had to do as she was told, without regard for her feelings. She wished she could run back to the castle or hide in the stables with Jago and Ynyr. The last thing she wanted to do, while her head still whirled with Grand-mère’s stories, was meet strangers at a formal tea.

  “Morwen!” It was a loud hiss, meant to carry but not be heard below stairs. Irene was waiting on the landing.

  Morwen faced her mother. “Yes, Maman,” she said.

  “Do you have it?”

  Morwen held up the linen-wrapped bundle.

  Irene exclaimed and snatched the stone from Morwen’s hands. She scratched her wrist with her sharp fingernails, but didn’t notice Morwen’s wince. Irene whirled and all but ran toward her own apartment. Morwen stood gazing after her, thinking that her mother was a terrible disappointment. That she was ashamed to be her daughter.

  When she was in her own room, taking a brush to her tangled hair, she caught sight of her face in the mirror and laid down her hairbrush. She looked just like her mother at that moment. Her lips were compressed, her eyes gleaming with anger. Deliberately she passed her hands slowly over her face. When she dropped them again, the alien look had disappeared. She leaned closer to the glass to gaze into her own eyes.

  “If I have to look like someone,” she said to her image, “let it be Ursule. Not Maman.” She willed it so, and she thought, after a few moments, that she had succeeded. Perhaps she was not without some power after all.

  She nodded to her reflection and rose from the dressing table to find a fresh frock.

  “Morwen, at last.” Papa stood up at her entrance, a thing he never did when the family was alone. He came to meet her, holding out his hand for her gloved one. He tucked hers under his arm and turned her toward the man standing beside one of the straight-backed chairs. “This is Lord William Selwyn, Morwen.” He added, as an afterthought, “And his son Dafydd. Lord William, my daughter, Morwen.”

  The older gentleman, and his son, who looked as if he must be about Morwen’s age, bowed. Lord William was a thickset man with brown hair beginning to gray at the temples. He smiled, making his drooping brown mustache quiver. It looked, Morwen thought, like a squirrel’s tail.

  “Well, Llewelyn,” Lord William said heartily. “She is everything you said. A lovely girl. And so tall!”

  Dafydd, still slender, but with the same thick brown hair as his father, stared at his well-polished boots. Morwen wondered if he was shy, or if he—like her—didn’t want to be here.

  Lady Irene was seated beside the table, the skirts of her best tea dress draped neatly around her crossed ankles. She didn’t speak, either, nor did she look up at her daughter.

  “Lord William will be our special guest at your coming-out ball,” Papa said. He guided Morwen to a seat and gestured to the men to take chairs as well. Everyone sat, and Chesley appeared, holding the door to allow the housemaid to pass through with the tea tray.

  As Irene poured the tea and served the cups, Papa and Lord William chatted. Morwen and Dafydd sat at opposite sides of the table and listened to their parents discuss them as if they were livestock to be traded.

  “Morwen speaks fluent French,” Papa said.

  “Does she indeed,” Lord William responded, again bestowing that squirrel-tail smile on her. “Excellent. I understand she is also an accomplished horsewoman. Dafydd has a fine seat as well. Loves the fox hunt, don’t you, Dafydd?”

  Dafydd said, “Yes, Father.”

  Irene said, “Won’t you have a sandwich, Dafydd?” He took one and set it on his plate, but didn’t taste it. Morwen did the same. She pushed at the sandwich, letting her thoughts stray back to Ursule. She longed to be alone, to think about what the stories meant, to ponder her mother’s deception. She wanted to see Ynyr, and understand what was bothering him.

  The men droned on, the perfect illustration of why Morwen hated formal teas. Politics bored her. The launching of a new ship, Lusitania, held no interest unless she would be allowed to sail on it. The quarreling of kings and dukes in Europe surely didn’t matter here in Wales.

  Morwen felt the twinge that meant someone was watching her. She peeked up from beneath her eyebrows to find Dafydd Selwyn was looking directly at her. His expression didn’t change, but he lowered one eyelid, slowly, in a deliberate wink.

  Morwen stifled a giggle just as Lord William seemed to suddenly remember her presence. He said, with unconvincing jollity, “Miss Morwen, I have something serious to discuss with your papa. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing Dafydd your stables?”

  Lady Irene said nothing. Lord Llewelyn, however, nodded agreement with this suggestion, and bestowed an affectionate and completely unfamiliar smile on his daughter.

  She seized the chance to escape, jumping to her feet. She almost dashed straight out of the room, but remembered her training enough to curtsy to Lord William, then again to her father. “Thank you, sir,” she said in her most maidenly tone.

  She didn’t need to look at Dafydd to know he was biting back his own laugh. In moments they had left the men to their conversation and were runn
ing down through the garden like children freed from the schoolroom. They were still some distance from the stables when Ynyr whinnied, the full-throated call of a big stallion.

  Dafydd skidded to a stop. “What was that?” he said.

  Other than formal phrases, they were the first words he had spoken. Morwen slowed, too, so she could walk beside him. He had a pleasant face, and she liked the look of humor around his mouth and eyes. She said, “That’s Ynyr. My horse.”

  His eyes widened. “You don’t ride a—a pony?”

  Morwen laughed. “I’m far too tall for a pony! Wait until you see my Ynyr. He’s as big as two ponies piled together!”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Come on and see!” Morwen dashed ahead, leading the way into the straw-scented aisle between the loose boxes. Ynyr was waiting, his head extended over the half gate, his ears pricked forward. When he saw Morwen, he nickered and pressed against the gate, making the wood creak.

  Jago appeared, a bridle in one hand, an awl in the other. When he saw that Morwen wasn’t alone, he dipped his head to Dafydd and faded back into the tack room.

  Dafydd’s eyes were all for Ynyr. “But,” he said wonderingly, “that can’t be your horse! He’s—he’s a Shire, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Morwen, feeling smug, crossed to Ynyr, and as he lowered his head to her, laid her cheek against his broad forehead. “I ride him everywhere,” she said.

  “I don’t see how you could find a saddle to fit him!”

  Morwen turned, keeping her back to the stall gate, letting Ynyr nuzzle her hair. “I don’t use a saddle,” she said.

  “You ride astride?”

  Morwen shrugged. “Women do, you know,” she said. “Sidesaddles are ridiculous. And dangerous,” she added, giving him a warning look.