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A Secret History of Witches

Page 28

by Louisa Morgan


  “Then we’d best hurry.”

  It was not wasted on Morwen that Jago had not admitted to being her father, nor had he answered her questions. He worked beside her in silence. The two of them tenderly wrapped Ursule in her blankets, then carried her out to the courtyard. At the smell of death, Ynyr pulled back at first, but Morwen put her mouth close to his ear and whispered to him. “Please, Ynyr. Do this for me. It won’t be for long.” He settled down, though his tail switched restlessly and he laid his ears back at the first touch of his burden. She patted his shoulder, thanking him. He bent his head and touched her hand with his whiskery muzzle.

  Jago said, “Will you ride behind?”

  “No. I’ll walk.”

  “Long walk.”

  “I know.”

  “Follow me, then.” Jago led the way, turning away from the usual path down the hill to the river. He took the route that would skirt the hill on the southern side of the castle, leading them away from Morgan Hall and directly to St. Hilary.

  For some time they walked in silence, Jago ahead, Morwen and Ynyr coming after. Jago held the lamp high whenever there were obstacles, stones or roots in the path or thorns to catch at Ynyr’s sides or Morwen’s skirts. Morwen was grateful for the boots Jago had brought her. Her slippers would have been torn to shreds before they had gone half a mile.

  As they made their way, she thought hard. She would need money, and clothes. She would have to slip into Morgan Hall unseen, then hurry back to the stables for Ynyr. And she needed somewhere to go. Someplace where her parents would never find her.

  “Jago,” she called softly.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anyone in London?”

  It was well past midnight when they reached the church. They had to wait on the step for some minutes before Father Pugh, in a plaid wool dressing gown, answered Morwen’s knock. His mousy hair was rumpled, as if he hadn’t taken time to comb it, and his eyes were swollen with sleep. His housekeeper appeared behind him, also in her dressing gown, and with a cap over her gray hair. The priest, holding an oil lamp high, mustered a smile of greeting when he recognized the daughter of Lord Llewelyn, but it dissolved when he caught sight of Jago behind her, and Ynyr with a strange burden draped across his withers. “Why, Miss Morwen—”

  “Father Pugh, forgive this intrusion. A woman has died, and there’s no one to see to her.”

  “That is—it’s a body? On the horse?” The priest had a narrow face, and a small mouth that often trembled as if he were about to weep. Morwen had always felt rather sorry for him.

  “She is—she was—” Morwen felt a warning from Jago, though he made no sound. “She was someone who was kind to me. I hoped you could see to a proper burial.”

  Father Pugh’s lips had already begun to quiver. “Ah, well, Miss Morwen, this is not the—that is, most unusual—perhaps not quite the done thing? But if the woman was one of your family’s retainers, perhaps—that is, I would have thought milord would—”

  Morwen thought of her grandmother’s body, lying across Ynyr as if it were no more meaningful than a sack of oats, and tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to speak, but only a sob came out.

  “Oh, tsk, tsk, tsk,” Father Pugh said instantly. He stood back, holding the door to the rectory wide. “I didn’t see that you were upset, my dear. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t want your father to think … Oh, tsk, tsk, tsk. Come in, and Mrs. Welland will make you a cup of tea. Your man and I will handle the—that is, we’ll—the remains …”

  “You see, miss?” Jago said, without a trace of guile in his voice. “Didn’t I say? Just as I told you, Father Pugh will know what to do with old Mairie here. Go and have that cuppa, you. Father and I will manage between us.”

  Soon Morwen was seated on a plush settee in the rectory parlor, with a cup of tea in her hands and her feet warming at a hastily lit coal fire, and not long after that she and Jago were on their way back to Morgan Hall, Morwen on Ynyr’s back and Jago walking alongside.

  Morwen was so weary she could barely think. “It felt so wrong to leave her there, Jago. How do we know—”

  Jago must have been tired, too, but he showed no sign of it. He said, “Father Pugh is a timid man, but a kind one. Your gran will receive a Christian burial.”

  Morwen was certain her grand-mère Ursule had not been Christian, but it hardly mattered now. The pink and lavender streaks of first light were developing in the east, and she had to hurry to complete her preparations before the household woke. She said, “I’ll be back for Ynyr within the hour.”

  “Take care, you. Remember, she knows things.”

  So do I. But she didn’t speak the thought, and she wouldn’t know how to explain it to Jago even if there were time. She gave him back his jacket and boots, picked up the tattered skirts of her tea gown, and ran.

  She abandoned her ruined slippers beneath the rosemary bush at the back door, where Cook kept a key hidden in case she found herself locked out. Barefoot, Morwen dashed up the servants’ staircase and crept cautiously along the corridor to her own bedroom.

  It seemed a lifetime since she had seen it last. She had left it, wearing her nicest day frock, to meet her father’s guests for tea. She returned to it with her world turned upside down and all her plans as tattered as her once-pristine dress.

  The room was tidy, her nightdress laid out on her bed, a dress and smallclothes hanging ready on the wardrobe. Morwen stripped off her soiled clothes and left them in a heap on the cold hearth. She ignored the dress, instead choosing her warmest riding habit, with a divided skirt and a thick, long-skirted coat. As she dressed she scanned the room, deciding what she would take and how quickly she could pack her traveling case.

  Fifteen minutes later, noises began below stairs, the sounds of the servants starting their daily tasks. Morwen drew a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. She took a cautious look into the corridor before she slipped out, and pulled the door shut. With her case in one hand and her riding boots in the other, she made her way in stealth toward the servants’ staircase.

  She was too late. Even as she opened the door, she heard the stumping tread of the housemaid starting up.

  Morwen whirled and started back the other way, thinking she could go out through the front door, simply walk down into the foyer and straight outside. She reached the staircase, but before she could put a foot on the top tread she heard Chesley in the morning room. More time must have passed than she realized. If Chesley saw her, she would never make her escape.

  She turned again, to hasten along the corridor to Irene’s boudoir. There was nothing else for it. If her mother was asleep, perhaps she could tiptoe through her bedroom, into her beautiful bathroom, and down her secret staircase.

  She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, but the ringing of a bell from her father’s bedroom made her start with alarm. If he caught her—if any of them stopped her now—her freedom would be forever at an end.

  She set her teeth, turned the knob, and went in.

  The boudoir was dim, the early sunlight not yet penetrating its heavily curtained window. Morwen locked the boudoir door behind her, and cautiously, gingerly, eased her mother’s bedroom door open.

  She managed to keep the latch from clicking, but it was as if she had walked straight into the morning sun. The curtains were drawn back, and the enormous mirror and creamy walls blazed with light. For long seconds she stood blinking against the brilliance.

  She heard her mother’s voice before she could make out her form. “They won’t bury her in the churchyard, you know,” Irene said. “Your efforts are wasted, yours and Jago’s.”

  Morwen blinked again and began to perceive her mother standing in the very center of the room, on her pretty green-patterned rug. She wore a white peignoir, and her thick dark hair was caught up with white ribbon. She seemed to materialize out of the light, and the effect was unnerving. The crystal lay at her feet in a pool of crumpled linen, its smooth top afire with sunshine.

 
Morwen pointed at it. She couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “You spied on us.”

  “Scried. You really should use the proper verb, Morwen.”

  Morwen took a step forward. “I’m leaving, Maman.”

  Irene didn’t move. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve seen to it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I sent him away.”

  “Who?”

  “The damned horse, of course.”

  Morwen gasped. “You can’t do that! Ynyr is mine!”

  “I know what’s best for you, Morwen.” Irene bent to fold the linen around the crystal.

  “Maman, how could you? You lost your own familiar, and you would take mine away?”

  “We’ll find you another spirit familiar, one that’s more—appropriate.”

  Morwen said, in a voice tight with bitterness, “I have a lot left to learn, but I know familiars choose us, not the other way around.”

  Irene said, “Well, then, you’ll do without. Just as I have done.” She straightened with the stone in her arms and turned, her peignoir swirling around her, toward the window seat.

  Fury emptied Morwen’s mind of all but the need to find Ynyr. It fired her muscles and freed her mind from doubt. Silent and determined, she sprang forward. In one efficient movement she snatched the wrapped crystal from her mother’s arms. She dashed into the bathroom and ripped aside the curtain that disguised the secret staircase. Irene, immobilized by shock, cried out. The sound meant nothing to Morwen. She was through the little door and halfway down the dark stairs before she realized she had abandoned her traveling case, her coat, and her money.

  She couldn’t think of any of that now. She didn’t slow her frantic pace. All that mattered was Ynyr. All she cared about was reaching the stables before someone took him away.

  Such things took time, she assured herself, as she clattered down the final steps and unlatched the door with shaking fingers. It wasn’t as simple as just ordering Ynyr removed, or sold, or whatever Irene had tried to do. Someone would have to come for him, tack him up, lead him away, or put him in traces. The sun had not been up an hour, and though farmers began their labors early, surely it couldn’t yet have been accomplished …

  She ran down through the garden, her breaths coming as sobs and the stone growing heavy in her arms. She reached the stables and raced into the center aisle.

  She was met with silence. There was no welcoming nicker from Ynyr, no impatient stamping, no greeting from Jago as he emerged from the tack room.

  With the crystal clutched to her chest, she called, “Jago? Are you there?”

  He didn’t answer. The door to the tack room was closed, as was the door to the loft.

  At the sound of her voice, two other horses put their heads outside their stalls and regarded her with curiosity. She heard the bleating of sheep in their pasture, and cows lowing in the milking shed, but no whinny or whicker. She ran down the aisle, peering over the gates and through the bars of every stall. In a panic she raced to the far end of the stables and out into the empty paddock. She shaded her eyes with her hand, straining her eyes to see down the road, over the fields, searching for any glimpse of Ynyr’s silver coat shining in the morning sun.

  There was nothing. She trembled from her head to her toes, and squeezed the crystal against her so hard she could feel the edges of its rough base through the folds of linen. She didn’t know precisely why she had taken it, but—

  “I told you,” came her mother’s cold voice behind her. “He’s gone.” Morwen whirled to face her. “So is Jago. I sent them both away.”

  “Jago! But why? I don’t see how—”

  Irene took a step toward her. The corners of her mouth were pinched tight, and her eyes were narrow as a cat’s. “I’m not a fool, Morwen. I’ve been wielding the power for a long time. I saw you and Jago come in, and I gave my orders.”

  “But surely—Papa—”

  “Your father and I had already agreed, after your behavior yesterday, that the horse should go.” Irene shrugged. “It’s done, Morwen. One day, when the grimoire comes to you, you can look up the spell I used to effect all this. In the meantime I’ll take the crystal back, and you can go unpack that silly case. I don’t know what you thought you were going to do—run away, a girl on her own?”

  “Grand-mère Ursule ran away on her own.”

  “She wasn’t a girl. And look where it got her!”

  “What do you mean? She was happy!”

  “Being a farmer?” Irene spit the words. “Digging in the dirt, cleaning pigsties?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Morwen said. “I prefer animals to silly people in silly clothes, doing nothing all day!”

  “You wouldn’t,” Irene said. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “I don’t want to live the way you do, Maman.”

  “You’re too young to know what you want.” Irene took another step toward her. “I’m through talking, Morwen. You’ll understand one day. Now give me the crystal.” Her hands, sharp nailed, long fingered, reached for the stone.

  Morwen looked at her reaching hands, and a powerful revulsion rose in her. Her heart seemed to swell to a great size. It beat more and more strongly, so that a wave of heat built in her chest—or perhaps the heat was in the crystal. She couldn’t distinguish between the two. The energy of her anger over Ynyr focused in the stone, gathering itself like a storm cloud above the Vale. She had no control over it, any more than she would over a lightning storm. When it manifested in a bolt of energy, it burst out with the force of a blow.

  Or the devastating kick of a Shire stallion.

  Irene froze. Her face went white and her reaching hands flailed. Her throat worked as she struggled to draw a breath. She swayed like a sapling before a stiff wind, and her knees gave way. She crumpled to the ground, the white material of her peignoir fluttering around her like the broken wings of a dying swan.

  Morwen gaped, shocked by what she had caused to happen. When a host of black stars blurred her vision, she found she wasn’t breathing, either. The need for air conquered the explosive power within her, and with a harsh rasp, she sucked in a deep, relieving breath.

  Irene’s breath returned when Morwen’s did. Her chest heaved, and her head hung low as she struggled to recover herself. When her color began to return, she braced herself on the ground with both hands and glared up at her daughter, baring her teeth like a predatory animal. She hissed, “I should have smothered you the moment you were born!”

  Morwen spun away from her and began to run.

  7

  The bower of willow branches was cool and damp now, as autumn rains had begun to swell the river. Morwen huddled in its green shadow, shivering and thirsty. She had neither eaten nor slept for more than a day, and she felt the loss of Ynyr as if someone had carved out a piece of her heart and tossed it into the River Thaw.

  She longed for Jago, and she worried for him. It was a terrible thing, Mademoiselle said, for a servant to be turned off without a reference. It meant he could never find another position. Whatever became of him would be her fault.

  For that matter, what was to become of her? She didn’t dare show her face in St. Hilary. She had no clothes, no money, and no one to turn to.

  She had nothing, in fact. Except …

  The crystal. Her birthright.

  It lay near her knee, covered in muddy linen. She wasn’t sorry she had taken it from her mother. Irene had shown no pity for her daughter, nor her mother, nor Ynyr. Morwen had no intention of returning the stone. Irene had her grimoire. She could make do.

  Irene had used the crystal to scry on Jago, and other human beings. Morwen prayed, as she tried to unwrap the stone with unsteady fingers, that it could also be used to find a horse.

  She knew very little about her power, really. She had never had access to the grimoire, and now supposed she never would. She had only her instinct.

  She spread the soiled linen wrappings across the damp earth and
passed her hands over the rounded top of the crystal. It glowed with greenish light, reflecting the trailing branches of the willow trees, but there was no spark within, no movement, no vision in its crystalline depths. It was just a stone, beautiful, shining, lifeless.

  Morwen slumped forward, her shoulders weighed down by fatigue and loneliness and an overwhelming sense of defeat. She longed to hear Ynyr cropping grass outside her hiding place. She longed to know where Jago had gone, so she could go after him. She thought of Ursule, cold and abandoned in the tower of Old Beaupre Castle.

  “I think I know how you felt, Grand-mère,” she whispered. “There was no one left to you. I wish—oh, how I wish you were here now, with me!”

  As if in answer, a light kindled deep inside the crystal. Morwen gazed at it with disbelieving eyes. Was she imagining it? She rubbed her tired eyes and looked again. It was still there, a tiny flame like the wick of a burning candle. It swelled and steadied as she watched it, and colors flickered here and there, like fireflies in the dusk. She leaned closer.

  The voice sounded inside her head, gentle and familiar, blending with the murmur of the river. “Ma petite fille,” it said. “Don’t try. It will come. Don’t try.”

  Tears filled Morwen’s eyes. “Grand-mère! Tell me what to do!”

  There was no reply.

  Don’t try, Morwen thought. Don’t try. Even if she had dreamed she heard Ursule’s voice, it was good advice.

  She ran her fingers over the crystal again. The light was still there, though the stone was cold to the touch. Morwen bowed her head above it, thinking of her ancestresses, the line of Orchiéres who had preceded her, the women of the craft. It seemed unbearably cruel that each of them should have suffered moments like this, times of betrayal and abandonment and despair. She felt the connection with them in her heart, in her soul. The swell of energy in her breast that had proved so devastating against her mother rose again, but it was different this time, a sense of outreach, of searching, of asking.

  She murmured to the stone, “Can you show me my Ynyr?”

 

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