Suddenly, her head began to swim. The statuesque figure in front of her spiralled into the whiteness. She dropped to her knees....
And the white turned to black. It was a heavy, suffocating darkness that laid heavy on her lidded eyes; crept into her mouth and nostrils; formed a wedge between her parted legs. It crushed her arms against her chest, into the wild heartbeat beneath; chilled her very marrow. The dark gritted between her gnawing teeth, it squirmed against her naked flesh.
She was in death but alive. Taken into Mother Earth’s crushing embrace while the senses still rebelled in pain.
She curled her fingers up away from the drumming beat towards the light she knew lay beyond, but the muscles of her arms were too weak to deliver the necessary thrust. Instinct levered open her jaw but there was no breath to cry out, only dark to fill the void ... and mind-numbing terror.
And him....
Marsden had watched her collapse in the snow. He stood over her now, all but his eyes swathed in a thick muffler. His gloved hands turned her face upwards and brushed the snow from her hair and mouth. He spattered brandy over her blue lips, then carried her back to the cottage.
The vision had left Kate to a disturbed drowse. The brandy, fire on numb lips and gums, had chased away the dark – brought back the white.
He laid her on the rough wooden table beside the kitchen hearth and stoked the dying fire. He wrenched off her boots and chafed her numb feet until she winced with the pain of hot-aches. She heard him climb the stairs. Moments later he came down with blankets and set about removing her saturated clothing.
Too late she remembered the brooch. She saw the quizzical twist of his features; heard the tear of material and the rumbling growl deep in his throat as he flung the brooch across the shady room. She dragged herself up on an elbow and met the full force of the blow that sent her down into the quarried hearth. She fell heavily, cracking her head and shoulder on the stone.
He threw the table clear, dragged her up with a handful of hair, then struck her a jarring back-hand blow through the shield of her hands.
‘Ah Kate.’ The words were soft, no more than the hiss of damp wood in the grate. A wisp of cold disappointment that frightened her much more than his anger. She reached out to touch his face but he caught her fingers and crushed them until she dropped to her knees. ‘What now of your promise of obedience, eh?’ There came a sharp fizz from the smouldering logs. ‘You went to Bristol?’
She nodded, her throat cracked dry, and murmured, ‘Yes.’
‘And returned with money enough to satisfy Steward Clarke. Gained how, if not with that, eh? By whoring?’
‘No!’ she pleaded. He pushed her derisively with his foot then unbuttoned his coat and draped it carefully over the up-ended table. She made as if to rise but he stopped her with a warning finger. He took the high-backed fireside chair, rested his elbows on its curved arms, and stared pensively into the flames.
The terror of the vision returned to her. It pierced her like a glass shard. Then was gone.
The crackle of the flames filled her ears. Her tongue probed the bloody inside of her cheek. She stared at his dark, shoulder-length hair gleaming in the flickering light, willing him to free her from the awful silence. It seemed an eternity before he invited her to explain. Then her words tumbled into the censorious opening. The brooch, the watch. Her desire to have something of him. And through it all his unnerving, unblinking stillness.
At last he pointed at the coat. ‘Take out what is in the inner pocket.’ She rose stiffly. Conscious of the lambing oil trapped under her nails, she delved carefully into the layers of fine black cloth and came out with a furry warmth.
‘A kitlin!’ she gasped, as the cowering white and ginger bundle mewed for the first time.
‘The one survivor of a drowned litter,’ he said off-handedly. ‘Rear it, or kill it, as you please.’ He swung himself up and snatched it from her, dangling its neck between his thumb and forefinger. When she moved after it he caught her throat with his free hand. ‘That,’ he growled, ‘is the last time ever you will disobey me. Believe me. I will have you completely, or not at all!’
‘I’ll sell the brooch,’ she swore.
‘You will keep it,’ he countermanded. ‘Wear it openly.’
‘It is too fine ...’ she protested. ‘They’ll be sure to want to know how I came by it.’
‘A silver larum, or a brooch. What difference? Have them know it belonged to your mother,’ he said, tossing the kitten at her and reaching for his coat.
‘Stay with me,’ she begged. ‘Don’t torment me by leaving me now‒’
He pulled on his gloves, scrutinizing her anxious face, then said slowly, ‘I’ll not come again until I have proof of your obedience.’ He snatched his sleeve from her urgent fingers, and tied the woollen muffler around his neck.
‘What can I do?’ she choked, following him to the door. ‘For pity’s sake, tell me‒’
The door swung out of his hand and they were enveloped in a snowy blast. He paused, then forced the door shut again.
‘One thing alone,’ he conceded. ‘The child, Caroline Grafton, is to have a birthday feast, after matins two weeks hence. Take a gift to her‒’
‘The girl Jack scratched?’ she asked incredulously.
‘By way of an apology ... a weaned lamb would be fitting. Insist you give it to her in person.’
‘How can I return to Apescross?’ she reasoned. ‘I’ll get no further than the gates‒’ The words gusted back at her and the only reply came from the hapless kitten.
The evening of the second Sabbath....
The girlchild twisted fretfully in her sleep, her dreams a mismatch of broken images:
The witch woman’s mouth drawn into a tight smile – being chased by the slavering dog – her father shouting at Samuel, the butler – the lamb’s fluffy tail wagging furiously – nurse pulling back the witch’s hood – wet eyes looking at her in the mirror – red weals on her arm – Prince Rupert limping with a great spike in his hoof – the witch woman’s twitching eyes and outstretched arms – her father’s face red with anger – her friend, the footman bowled over by a spirit force – three lines on her arm – frightened eyes in the looking-glass – searching the hall for kind Mr Marsden – the black lamb sucking blood from the scratches on her arm‒
‘Mr Marsden! Barbara!’ she screamed.
The boy sharing the bed with her, stroked her sweat-matted hair. He kissed her hot cheek and assured his little sister that it was no more than a nightmare. When, at length, he had lulled her back to sleep, he crept away to fetch cousin Barbara.
The girlchild watched the watching crow; saw it wipe its beak in the tree moss; stretch its great black wings in satisfaction. She watched it flap away ... felt her eyes drawn down, down to the cowslip meadow beneath the tree.
Down to the horror of the little black lamb with no eyes.
Gull-Catching ...
Not since the excitement of his breeching at Christmas, had Francis Grafton been so conscious of the onset of manhood. That his father should grant him the privilege of dining with the adults was honour indeed, especially when the company included Mr Marsden.
He sucked the dregs from his wine glass, moulded his shoulders – stiff in the blue silk jacket Mama had insisted he wear – into the curve of the chair and peered out under his fringe.
Marsden and his father were busy discussing the likelihood of war with Holland. He listened eagerly to snatches of talk about the relative strengths of the two navies, longing for the day when he, like Mr Marsden, would take part in a great sea battle. Soon though, the men removed from the table with their glasses of porter, abandoning him to bursts of feminine laughter and the clatter of plates as Hannah cleared the table around him.
Aunt Henrietta leaned across him, her perfumed yellow wig sprinkling his breeches with specks of powder, as she listened, head cocked to his mother’s confidential whispers. The old lady pressed her fan to her lips and withdrew with
an enigmatic smile.
Beyond his mother, Cousin Barbara laughed with the older ladies, brushing imaginary crumbs from her cleavage with an embroidered napkin. Her attention was elsewhere however. Disguise it as she might, her eyes had been on him all night. Which might have irritated Francis but for the fact that Marsden, unlike the London beaux, had been only mildly attentive to his cousin, whereas on several occasions he had been at pains to draw him into conversation.
Francis wound his fingers around the tassels bordering the tablecloth and imagined the others already in their beds: Joseph, Cissie and Caroline, all feigning sleep until nurse went to her bed ... until he came.
‘Come Francis!’ cried his father, starting him from sated lethargy. ‘Play for us.’
He rose, brushing the powder from his breeches, cheeks flushed. His mother nudged him, impatient as ever that he should do nothing to vex his father. He stumbled over the hearth and his stumble coincided with another titter. Francis righted himself, slowly turned and made a sweeping bow to the ladies.
Marsden joined the ladies’ laughing approval of the young man’s bravado. This show of spirit pleased, even surprised him. His eyes followed Francis to his inglenook seat; watched the soft, boyish hands first tune, then begin to play, the lute. The melody was sweet, the execution accomplished, but the accomplishment was completely overshadowed by the first boy-soprano notes. The unexpected sound shuddered exquisitely through him.
Grafton refilled his companion’s glass. ‘Francis had the benefit of a renowned London lute-master – tutor to the king’s household.’
‘I recall there was an accomplished lutist travelled with His Majesty in exile,’ said Marsden, turning to his host. ‘Eckeburg – I first met him in Holland.’
‘The very man, sir!’ exclaimed Grafton. He ran his finger around the rim of his glass before venturing, ‘You were even at that time in the king’s service?’
‘I regret that I may not disclose such information – even to so staunch a Royalist as you sir,’ said Marsden, under his breath. ‘I trust you alone, as a generous host and a man of principle and honour, to know that I am in the county on the king’s business. For both our sakes I dare expand no further.’
‘Nor would I expect it,’ said Grafton quickly. ‘Be assured that you are welcome under my roof so long as business detains you here. It is not often I enjoy the company of a man of affairs and intelligence out here in the country. It seems you have made a great impression on the entire household. My wife informs me that the children talk of little else but their Mr Marsden.’
Marsden’s eyes came to rest on the ladies, now seated at a card-table. He briefly acknowledged Barbara’s pointed glance, then turned to stare through a casement window at the moonlit courtyard below. ‘I believe you should be concerned for young Caroline’s state of mind,’ he said with obvious reticence.
‘Ah, Caroline,’ Grafton said gravely. ‘Some childish morbidity since that Gurney woman upset her. It will pass, in the way of such things. Ellen had told me how the child called for you again this evening – says that the girl is afraid to close her eyes, unless you are there, or some such nonsense. We are indebted to you for your condescension‒’
‘I fear, Grafton, that this is more than mere childish fancy. I have observed in Caroline a deep disturbance of the mind. It may signify no more than a common childhood ailment; an imbalance of the humours, but such cases demand careful attention.’
‘It may yet prove to be Caroline’s way of claiming more than her share of your attention,’ said Grafton with a wry smile.
‘Ahh!’ interrupted Barbara, laying a careless hand on Marsden’s arm. ‘Uncle, I wonder, could you spare Mr Marsden? We need a fourth hand for shuffleboard‒’
There came a sudden jarring chord from the lute, a sharp intake of breath and Francis’s squeal of pain. The maid, Hannah, walking past with a bowl of apples, lost her grip. The bowl shattered on the stone hearth and apples rolled across the patterned rug. Ellen Grafton scolded the maid as she rushed to her son, who sat palm pressed against his left eye.
‘Whatever‒’ she gasped. Her husband quickly assessed the situation.
‘Don’t fuss Ellen. Can’t you see that a string has snapped?’ He inspected his son’s injured eye.
‘I’m not hurt, Mama,’ Francis pleaded, embarrassed by his mother’s concern.
‘Quite right,’ added his father dismissively. ‘Nothing a cold poultice and a night’s rest won’t restore.’ With that he guided Francis towards the door, laying the lute on a pedestal table as he passed it, leaving Ellen to trail after them.
Barbara linked her fingers behind her back and leaning her head against the cool window, gagged a laugh. Aunt Henrietta was staring myopically into a mirror, straightening the wig which she had knocked scrambling under the table after an apple.
‘A broken lute string!’ sighed Barbara, trailing her fingertips down the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Is this the limit of country amusement? How much you must have seen and done ... how many women you must have bedded.’ She giggled at her own daring.
‘Are you so discontent with country life?’ he asked quietly.
‘I swear it will be the death of me,’ she sighed. ‘What is there for me here? There is no gaiety in the company of aunts and a stiff-necked guardian. It is not in my nature to be a docile creature. I crave London life – the theatres, the balls, the gossip, the river-boats, the noisy street vendors who wake you at the crack of dawn‒’
‘The sordid underbelly?’ He glanced sideways at her animated face; saw the challenge in her hazel eyes.
‘And that,’ she agreed. ‘One day I shall just up and go.’
‘Alone?’
‘I’ll ride to Bristol, sell my jewels, take the first coach to London,’ she enthused.
‘And there?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll lodge with an acquaintance until my fortunes progress.’
‘A gentleman acquaintance?’
‘I didn’t take you for a prude, Mr Marsden. Virgo intacta is not my intention. I shall follow the route of Barbara Villiers and actress Nell.’
‘The king’s bed no less,’ he said with a wry smile. A frown marred her enthusiasm.
‘Am I not beautiful enough?’ she demanded.
‘That is not in question,’ he replied, casually taking out his pocket watch and flicking back the cover. ‘What surprises me is your willingness to lie with an old rake like Charles Stuart – a man who has already used up one Barbara and a dozen others besides. London’s brothels are full of whores who began as fresh-faced innocents.’
‘Ah but there’s the difference,’ she said with a lazy gurgle. ‘I’m no innocent, Mr Marsden. Why else would Uncle Samuel have banished me to Apescross a month before the family came home?’ As she spoke the door opened and her uncle strode purposefully towards them. A barely perceptible start belied her air of confidence. ‘The summerhouse, by the orchard,’ she breathed, her hand slipping over his as though by accident, ‘in a half hour.’ She edged away, making much of a yawn, and enquired after Francis.
Marsden braced his arms against the window jambs. In the courtyard below he watched a boyish figure flit through the shadows to the stables. He clicked the watch cover shut and turning towards Grafton, enquired, ‘Francis suffered no serious injury, you say?’
Hannah had not meant to spy on them. What with dropping the apple bowl, then Mistress Grafton barking at her to leave the clearing up till morning, her mind had been in a fearful state. She had been sobbing in the scullery when Master Francis had hurried through to the kitchen door. She had rushed after him with some vague notion that if he put in a good word for her, she might be spared a thrashing next morning when the butler heard about her clumsiness.
She had slipped into the stables as the door swung to and hearing hushed voices, had crawled into an empty pen. She could hear Francis talking. Then several young voices replied, some she recognized. Hannah crept closer.
A lantern had been hooked on
to a beam. Under it the children had formed a circle. Francis, Joseph and the misses Cissie and Caroline wearing no more than their cotton night-shifts, Ben the housekeeper’s boy and Ollie the stable lad, all kneeling in the straw, their heads bowed as though in prayer.
Hannah pressed herself into a dark corner and watched.
Caroline, her back to the corner, rose unsteadily to her feet and moved to the centre of the circle, carrying the black lamb. The girlchild closed her eyes, turned twice, then lay down in the straw, pulling the lamb close to her side.
The others closed ranks and linked hands, in silence. Even the lamb was quietly expectant.
Francis turned to Cissie on his right and whispered. His sister nodded gravely and repeated the message to Ben, who passed it on to Joseph. Hannah closed her eyes and sighed with relief. It was only a round of whispers; a secret, silly game. And it would serve them right if she peached on them, scaring her so.
The whisper had been twice round. It reached Francis and blossomed into a chant:
Earth, air, water, fire.
Over nadir, under zenith,
Come, oh spirits lend thy might;
Come, oh come to us this night!
Over and over again the words themselves seemed to have no beginning, no end. They pulled at Hannah, drew her out of the shadows. Numbed her mind to all but the girlchild.
Fived mouths voiced the incantation. Five hands cupped head, shoulders and slippered feet. Lifted the sleeping child from her bed of straw. Hannah watched and Hannah saw them turn and leave her hanging there.
Barbara had tired of dancing a courante on the springy boards of the pentagonal summerhouse. She lifted her skirts and slumped down on the slatted bench-seat by the window overlooking the orchard.
The spring scent of currant bushes lingered on the night air. And everywhere branches of apple and quince and pear were hung with moon-washed blossom.
She pressed her temple against the window frame and searched the glittering sky for the star-configuration Marsden had pointed out to her the night astrology had become the subject of after-dinner conversation. But soon abandoned the search. She had, after all, been more attentive of him that night than of what he had been saying. And had been again tonight when she suggested this assignation.
The Witch (The Witch Trilogy Book 1) Page 5