The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  ‘Off now, William, and if you should chance upon Analee apprehend her and fetch her straight to me. Understand?’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  William mounted his tired horse and wearily turned his way back the twenty miles or so they had come, while the Falcon and his diminished party set their face once more southwards.

  Sir George Delamain was honoured at the unexpected arrival of the Marquess of Falconer and sent his servants into a spin of preparations for a sumptuous dinner. Maidservants were despatched with warming pans to prepare his lordship’s bed and Nelly and McNeath were sent to the servants’ hall.

  It was a sad and divided home that Angus Falconer found. Emma was grieving for Stewart Allonby, still confined in Carlisle Castle, and her brother George was too ashamed to mention his fate or that of Brent, bragging only about his own deeds.

  ‘I was very active with the militia in routing the brigands, my lord. When your lordship assisted in the final relief of Carlisle I helped to send them packing across the border.’

  ‘And your brother?’ his lordship said with a trace of sarcasm. ‘He is well?’

  ‘Brent, my lord. I ...’

  ‘Your cousin likewise is clapped in Carlisle gaol, I hear, waiting to hang.’

  Sir George flushed and took a draught of wine while his wife cast him a glance of disdain.

  ‘You know, cousin, that George has naught to do with the rebels. He distinguished himself on the side of His Majesty’s militia. We cannot help it if our family is divided.’

  Henrietta looked witheringly at Emma who was gazing in front of her.

  ‘My family, too, is divided, cousin,’ the Falcon replied gently, looking at Emma. ‘I have many members of it on the side of the Stuarts, including two ducal cousins! There are now two Dukes of Athol, a Hanoverian one and a Jacobite one!’

  The Falcon laughed and smiled kindly at Emma as if guessing the secret of her heart. Emma had already visited Stewart in Carlisle Castle, seeking to encourage him and give him hope.

  Now that he was rested and had eaten well Henrietta ventured to ask her cousin the reason for his journey.

  ‘I would not ask it, cousin, for it is surely on His Majesty’s business, were you not accompanied by a serving girl as well as your servant.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The Falcon’s eyes sparkled and he twisted the stem of his wine glass winking into its ruby depths.

  ‘I am bewitched by a gypsy. A beautiful woman whom I intend to make my mistress. She has already given me her favours, but I wish to establish her in style. I offered her everything: jewels, silks, the gold of the Falconers, but she has run away from me.’

  Emma looked up from her sad reverie at the mention of the word ‘gypsy’. Drawn to her brother’s wife, Mary, by shared sorrow she knew full well the story of Brent’s involvement with a gypsy enchantress. Was it possible that the witch was again abroad in Lakeland?

  George Delamain sighed and avoided his guest’s eyes. These noblemen and their indiscretions! He would never have boasted about pursuing a mistress; he had just very discreetly paid his last one off for fear Henrietta should become suspicious. Henrietta was beginning to show a pleasing fullness in the figure and he was expecting good news about an heir from her soon. Besides there was a sharpness to Henrietta that made him nervous of displeasing her. After all, the Dacre fortune was no small consideration.

  ‘Really, Angus!’ Henrietta said, not one to mince her words, ‘a man of your eminence sporting with a gypsy!’

  ‘No ordinary gypsy, my dear. I wager she has noble blood in her veins. She is a temptress, an enchantress.’

  Emma said nothing. Neither her brother nor sister-in-law knew about Brent and his gypsy lover; but it was an odd coincidence nevertheless.

  ‘And how will you find your gypsy, Angus?’

  ‘By roving the country for her. I think she is coming south to Penrith, and tomorrow I will wait for her there ...’

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the door and McNeath burst in followed by William who had left them only hours before.

  ‘My lord,’ McNeath bowed to Lady Delamain and approached his master, ‘William scarcely arrived back when a message came post haste from the Duke of Cumberland who would have you rejoin the army in Scotland. The barbarians are fighting back.’

  ‘Curses!’ Lord Falconer jumped up, ‘’twas a summons I expected but not so soon. Where is His Royal Highness?’

  He began to question the exhausted William while Henrietta gave directions to her own servants.

  ‘I will leave at first light,’ Lord Falconer said, ‘my duty to my King comes first. McNeath will journey with me, but Nelly and William will continue the search. If you permit us to stay the night, cousin?’

  ‘Of course. I would be offended if you left before you had passed a peaceful night. Your room is prepared.’

  ‘Then I will go straight to my bed.’

  The Falcon bowed and glanced at Emma.

  ‘Good night, Miss Delamain. May you be luckier in your next choice of a sweetheart.’

  ‘There will be no next choice,’ Emma said thrusting out her chin defiantly. There was something odious about Lord Falconer; arrogant and imperious. She had been about to ask him discreet questions concerning his gypsy but now decided not to. Besides, it was no concern of hers. She was intrigued though to know the identity of this gypsy who had such a powerful attraction over men. She thought of the maidservant who had come with the Marquess and slipped quietly down to the kitchen where Nelly, recovered from her ordeal, was ogling McNeath across the table where they were enjoying a good meal.

  ‘I am looking for an escort to take me to my mother’s house. Will you come with me?’ she asked Nelly. ‘I have heard what a harrowing journey you had this day. Maybe this good soldier will see you safe back here?’

  Nelly jumped up and dropped a low curtsy. She had never seen a fine lady in the kitchen premises before, and this girl was both elegant and beautiful, but she wore an expression of sadness as though she had been bereaved.

  ‘I am Emma Delamain,’ Emma said, smiling at Nelly. ‘In fact,’ she whispered, ‘there is something I would ask you.’

  Intrigued, Nelly pushed her plate away and, nodding to McNeath went to get her cloak and then followed Emma through the long subterranean corridors of the castle into the cold night air.

  ‘Tell me,’ Emma whispered, guiding her along the narrow path to the lodge, ‘what is the name of the gypsy so sought after by the Marquess of Falconer?’

  Nelly stopped in the dark and McNeath, following close behind, nearly cannoned into her.

  ‘Why miss?’

  ‘I assure you ‘twill be a secret. Can you tell it me?’

  ‘Could you not ask his lordship, miss?’

  ‘There are reasons I cannot. Is she called Analee?’

  There was no moon and Nelly felt confused and uncomfortable in the darkness, uncertain what to say. She saw they were approaching the house and the glow of candles flickered through the thin rain. The door opened and Emma’s mother peered anxiously into the darkness.

  ‘Emma, is it you?’

  ‘Yes, Mama. Lord Falconer has arrived at the castle and his servants very kindly brought me home. Please,’ Emma whispered urgently, ‘tell me her name.’

  Suddenly Nelly heard the sharp cry of a baby and Mrs Delamain disappeared back inside the house. Emma ran forward followed by Nelly and McNeath who thus found themselves all assembled together in the hallway.

  ‘It is all right,’ Mrs Delamain smiled. ‘She has the colic. We have a baby you see,’ she looked at Nelly, ‘the most darling little child, do come and see her.’

  She put a hand to her lip and crept up the stairs followed by a very puzzled Nelly. To whom did the baby belong? Would Miss Delamain have a baby? It was quite a common occurrence for unmarried gypsy girls, but among the gentry ...

  Emma was behind her but McNeath, awkward in this company, stayed on the doorstep. Inside the nursery Nelly cou
ld see a nurse fussing over the crib.

  ‘Come see our baby,’ Mrs Delamain said, ‘she has transformed our bleak lives. A gift from God, the darling ...’

  Nelly leaned forward, a candle held high for her by Emma who was also smiling.

  ‘Is she not perfect?’ Emma said, ‘she was found quite by chance.’

  Nelly leaned over and looked into the face of Morella, little changed since she had last seen her. She was bigger and chubbier, but had the same flaxen hair, the same large blue eyes and cupid’s bow mouth as the baby that Analee had given birth to that awful night three months before. Was it only three months? It seemed like a lifetime. Comforted the baby had stopped crying and gazed earnestly up into the eyes of the girl who had helped to deliver her.

  Nelly gazed for a long time at Morella, her mind in a whirl. She turned to look at the nurse expecting to see Reyora, but a stranger returned her gaze.

  ‘She is lovely,’ Nelly said at last, nervously stepping back, ‘is she yours, miss?’

  ‘Mine?’ Emma laughed. ‘I am unwed! No she is not mine, would that she were! She was found by chance, and ailing, among a crowd of gypsies fleeing from the war. My mother gave shelter to the woman who had saved her – her mother and father had been killed by the soldiers. Then this woman wanted to go and rejoin her tribe, but my mother begged to be allowed to keep the baby. Seeing that in these hard times she would be well looked after, the woman reluctantly agreed. Her name is Morella.’

  Nelly knew her name; she knew everything about her, her mother and her father. How such an extraordinary circumstance had come about that Morella was in the care of her lawful grandmother she could not guess. She could only attribute it to the will of God.

  One thing she knew. She must find Analee and tell her her baby was safe. Only then would Analee have peace.

  Nelly looked once more at Morella, noticing the fine lawn of her nightgown, the linen on her crib, the soft shawls and blankets. The room was richly furnished and a fire glowed in the grate. The nurse’s only task was to look after her. Morella could not be better cared for. Nelly knew what she must do.

  She gave Morella her finger to clutch for a moment, then murmured a silent blessing on her head and stepped back.

  ‘I must get back to the castle, miss. McNeath will be waiting for me.’

  Emma followed her down and saw her to the porch. She held the candle high and looked earnestly into Nelly’s face.

  ‘I must know,’ she said, ‘was she called Analee?’

  Nelly stared at Emma, her open country girl’s face wide-eyed and innocent.

  ‘Oh no, miss, nothing like that. I’ve never heard that name to tell you the honest truth.’

  Emma searched Nelly’s face, but found there only honesty and simplicity. Surely such a girl would not lie? Would have no need to lie?’

  ‘Thank God,’ Emma said stepping back into the hall. ‘I thought for a moment it might have been a woman also loved by my brother. He cannot forget her either.’

  Guessing that her lover might try and find her Analee avoided the roads and kept instead to the hillsides and valleys. She skirted Penrith, it was too full of memories for her; the wood high on the hill was where she had made love to Brent, where Morella was conceived. But once close by Penrith the hills of Lakeland appeared out of the mist in the west and she was drawn towards them as one seeking shelter from an angry and hostile world. Maybe Reyora, fleeing from the armies, would have found refuge in these hills? Almost instinctively Analee set out in the direction of Keswick, scarcely knowing why she did.

  As the days passed the weather improved. Although the cold was biting, the rain had ceased and occasionally the sun shone. The nearer she got to the vale of Derwentwater the higher loomed the mountains on either side of the busy road on which plenty of traffic – carts, horses, sometimes a fine carriage and walkers like herself – plied between Penrith and Keswick.

  Analee savoured the peace and beauty of the scene around her. Here in the hedgerows, among the pine forests she had found brief happiness. Thinking as she did constantly of the lover she had left and the baby she had lost, the magnificent countryside was a balm to her tired soul. But although she saw many people on their way to market at Penrith, drovers with sheep or cattle, farmers with their produce, the odd pedlar, she saw no gypsies. No one had seen a gypsy tribe, no one a gypsy woman and a fair-haired baby. Of everyone she saw and stopped, she asked the same question.

  But the answer was always a smile and a regretful shake of the head.

  The purple range of Blencathra and giant Skiddaw on her right, Helvellyn, and the distant mountains surrounding Ullswater to her left, Analee finally saw in the distance the ribbon of blue that was Derwentwater enclosed by its hills. Just as she saw it the sun broke through the clouds lowering over the mountains, and the purple clad hills were bathed in the gentle light of early morning. Suddenly in her mind’s eye Analee saw the house on the side of the lake, pink stoned and surrounded by water, almost hidden in the forest of pines.

  Would they receive her? Welcome her? Did she dare? At least she would know what had happened to Brent, Morella’s father.

  Purple Skiddaw now loomed above her and, ahead of her, the wide expanse of Derwentwater glittered in the sunlight. The mountain tops covered with snow stretched like sentinels of uneven height guarding the entrance to a magic kingdom.

  Analee took the path to the right before she reached the town nestling in the valley. At once she began to climb through a forest and when she emerged the hills towered about her, their purples, browns and greens a kaleidoscope of colour while below her stretched a much longer, wider vista of the lake. Her heart quickened as she rounded a hill and there, perched on a promontory, was Furness Grange, its pink stone and black beams reflected in the still waters of the lake. Analee began to descend until she reached the wood and then she saw the jetty where the boat landed, and the small crofter’s cottage that nestled against the mountain side, wood smoke spiralling upwards through the trees.

  Analee approached the lakeside and sat on a stone. She pulled up her torn skirts to her knees and rubbed her sore calloused feet. She was very weary. Five days had passed since she had left Falcon’s Keep, and now it seemed that even her mind was numbed by the harsh winds that wrapped round her at night instead of the warm blankets she had become used to.

  Used? Analee sat up and stared at the distant peaks. Had she become used to the easy life, even the attic at Falcon’s Keep? A roof over her head and food, however humble, however roughly thrown at her, to eat?

  But the master had offered her much more. He had offered her untold wealth and security, a place of honour and status by his side.

  Analee shook her head. It was not for her. She let her feet soak in the clear water even though it was icy cold and stared at the pebbles sparkling beneath. Yes her belly was empty; she was cold and almost permanently damp. Maybe the Allonbys would let her spend a night in their barn? After all, she had not harmed them.

  She rose and, picking up her bundle, walked round to the kitchen entrance from which came the good smell of baking bread. Maybe Betty would be there and ... suddenly she stopped. A woman was staring at her from the window; a woman whose face she recognized, but whose expression was hostile, even frightened.

  Mary Allonby had on her face a look of such bitterness that Analee stepped back and shielded her eyes from the morning sun to be sure she was not deceived.

  ‘Hey!’ a voice called out and Betty Hardcastle stood at the door of the kitchen, her arms on her hips. ‘We want no vagabonds ... why?’ She went up, her eyes screwed against the sun which had risen over Walla Crag, and stared at Analee. ‘Were you not the gypsy that was here?’

  Analee nodded, half smiling, half afraid.

  ‘Then get thee off quick. Thou art not welcome here.’

  ‘But why?’

  Analee backed away, frightened and dejected. What had she done?

  ‘Let her stay.’ Mary Allonby stood behind Betty, gazin
g at Analee. Then she brushed past Betty and went over to her, her face a mixture of emotions –pity, anger and curiosity. ‘’Twas not her fault he preferred her to me.’

  ‘Me?’ Analee faltered. Then gradually, intuitively, she understood what Mary was talking about.

  ‘He is not here?’

  ‘You had better come inside,’ Mary turned and Analee followed her through the kitchen into the hall, then into the room overlooking the lake she remembered so well. And there was Charles the Martyr on the wall and the heads of all the Allonby ancestors looking, it seemed, down at her.

  ‘I see you are cold and wet,’ Mary said. ‘Sit by the fire, and Betty will bring you some nourishment. But what are you doing, Analee? What has happened to you?’

  ‘I left a baby when I came here, driven out by the Buckland gypsies. Then when the war started I knew I had done wrong. I wanted to know what had happened to her, where she was. I found the Buckland camp pillaged and half the tribe dead ...’

  ‘The baby ...’

  Analee shook her head. For once in her life she felt close to tears.

  ‘No. I have sought her. I have not found her. Some escaped. I think they went further south, maybe to Lancaster. I only ask for a night’s rest in the warm barn and I shall turn back the way I came ...’

  She stopped and looked at Mary, aware of the things that were unspoken between them.

  ‘I am not welcome here, am I? It is because ...’

  Mary’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He does not love me, but you. He went mad when you disappeared, tried to follow you.’

  ‘But did you not wed?’

  ‘Oh, we wed,’ Mary said bitterly. ‘My brother held a knife at his throat though I only discovered that afterwards. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, anyway, Brent knew that. But he does not love me, Analee, he cannot. Although three months wed I am still a maid.’

  Mary bit her lip and looked anxiously at Analee.

  ‘He has tried but he cannot. He was glad to go to the war, glad to get away from me.’