by Sandra Heath
HALLOWEEN MAGIC
Sandra Heath
Chapter One
It began on Halloween, 1818. There were violent thunderstorms all over England, and at the village of Wychavon, set deep in the woods of a remote Shropshire valley, the weather was so bad that all thought of the traditional bonfire and torch-lit procession had to be abandoned. Turnip lanterns flickered at windows, autumn leaves whirled wildly through the rain-soaked darkness, and the wind moaned like a lost soul in the eaves as the children sat around cozy hearths, listening to fearsome tales of witches, ghosts, and demons.
But a real witch came to Wychavon that night. Elderly Admiral Villiers had been shocked when he looked out of the manor house window and by a flash of lightning saw a mysterious young woman cowering naked in the garden. He immediately sent the servants out to bring her safely inside. She was beautiful, frightened, and had lost her memory—or so she claimed—and when she tearfully begged him to protect her, the gallant old man didn’t hesitate to consent.
The last of his line, and a confirmed bachelor all his life, he fell immediately and hopelessly in love. He called her Judith, which had been his mother’s name, and two months later, on Christmas Eve, to everyone’s astonishment, he made her his wife. Two months after that, on St. Valentine’s Day, 1819, he was drowned when his horse threw him into a mill pool, and Judith inherited everything the Villiers family owned.
But his death was no accident, and the tears she wept were as false as everything else about her, for she was really Meg Ashton, a vengeful Tudor sorceress who had returned on the two hundredth anniversary of her death to punish the descendants of those who had sent her to the stake. The judge of her trial had been a Villiers, and that was why she had used her black arts upon the unfortunate admiral. Now, on May Eve, 1819, six months to the day since her reappearance in Wychavon, she turned her attention to her next victim.
Nicholas, Lord Montacute, was the last of his line too, and his country seat was at Wychavon Castle, just outside the village. She intended him to suffer exactly the same fate as the admiral, because his ancestor had not only supplied the evidence that had convicted her, but had destroyed a stone circle dedicated to her terrible mistress, Hecate, goddess of witchcraft and darkness.
As the church clock struck twelve, and May Eve commenced, Judith slipped barefoot into the night. Her long chestnut hair was loose, and beneath her flowing velvet cloak the only thing she wore was the red garter of Hecate. She carried five new black candles, and a silver censer in which Lord Montacute’s stolen desk seal rested on a bed of magic herbs.
Mist obscured everything as she made her way over the village green, which was divided in two by the river that had carved the valley. Willows fringed the banks, and a ford and stepping stones were the only means of crossing from one side to the other. Because it was May Eve, a maypole stood in readiness for the following day’s celebrations. Its ribbons were motionless in the damp night air, and its garlanded top was lost beyond the haze.
Suddenly she tripped on a length of yellow embroidery thread caught tightly around a clump of reeds near the stepping stones, and dropped what she was carrying. As she bent to gather it all again, she tossed an angry glance toward a large house behind a high stone wall. It was the residence of the local magistrate, Joshua Windsor, whose niece Verity had that day been seated on the riverbank with her needlework.
The witch’s hazel eyes darkened as not for the first time she sensed that golden-haired Verity posed a threat to her plans. She didn’t know in what way, just that the threat was there. The magistrate’s niece would have to be dealt with, but not tonight, for May Eve was reserved solely for Nicholas Montacute.
Judith crossed the stepping stones, then hurried past the vicarage and the churchyard, and out of the village along the Ludlow road. Bluebells grew in the verges, and unseen beyond the mist the waning moon was a thin sickle among the stars. The river curved sharply away into thick woodland, and was soon lost from view, but a few hundred yards before reaching the gates of Wychavon Castle, she left the road to follow an overgrown track that led deep into the trees.
A minute or so later she emerged into a secluded oak grove where a ruined watermill loomed darkly beside the harnessed water of the river. This was where the unfortunate admiral had been sacrificed by drowning in the pool and where, two centuries earlier, his vengeful bride had perished in flames for practicing her evil. It was a place that was shunned by local people, who rightly believed that Hecate had saved her servant by incarcerating her spirit in the standing stone in the center.
Known as the Lady, the stone was all that remained of the circle the third Lord Montacute had destroyed. The other twelve stones had been cast into the millpool, but the Lady could not be dragged out of the ground, and when Meg was burned, Hecate had entombed her spirit in the granite. There she had remained until freed by the Halloween thunderstorm.
Two hundred years earlier, it had been a quest for vengeance over the circle that led to Meg’s downfall. Infuriated by the sacrilege, she and Hecate had turned their dark forces upon Lord Montacute, cursing to death his wife and unborn child, and attempting to do the same to him.
But Meg had been arrested and condemned in time to save him, so now it was handsome Nicholas Montacute, the innocent ninth lord, who would suffer the ultimate reprisal instead. But first he had to be beguiled from London, where the diversions were all-absorbing to a gentleman whose wealth, looks, and eligibility made him one of society’s leading players. Through his seal, however, he’d be compelled to return.
Judith crossed the damp grass to the mill, where the tools of her wickedness were hidden in a cavity beneath the rotting staircase. The building was dark and gloomy, the sound of water was all around, and the decaying wheel creaked in the foaming race as she put down the things she had brought with her, then removed her cloak.
She shivered because the night air was chill upon her naked body. She was very lovely indeed, and in spite of her red hair, had flawless skin. Her full lips were sensuous and pouting, and her firm-breasted figure was that of a twenty-five-year-old woman, but an ancient evil shone in her hazel eyes as she opened the staircase hiding place.
She took out five iron candlesticks, a carved elderwood wand, and a jar containing an ointment made of hemlock, nightshade, aconite, and opium, which she rubbed all over her body. Then she went out to the grove again, and with the wand drew a circle on the ground around the Lady. A new black candle was put in each candlestick and placed at even intervals outside the circle. The censer containing the herbs and seal she laid in front of the stone like an offering.
The preparations complete, she stretched her arms up, and whispered prayers to Hecate. The ritualistic words concentrated her mind, focusing her thoughts on the ceremony ahead, and as a trancelike calm descended slowly over her, she gazed intently at the Lady and called out.
“Come, dark queen of witches, goddess of the dying moon, dweller in the void. Come to thy servant and grant power to her purpose.”
Suddenly the river ceased to flow through the race, and there wasn’t a sound, not even the whisper of leaves. Then, in the distance, she heard hounds baying. The dog was sacred to Hecate, and Judith smiled, for the sound began to draw nearer, as if a hellish hunting pack coursed toward her along the valley. Louder and louder it became, until at last it echoed all around the grove, but the hounds remained out of sight in the shadows, howling at the sickle moon.
As the clamor reached a crescendo she pointed her wand at the first candle. “Hecate, light me!” she cried, her voice almost inaudible in the racket. The candle flickered into green flame, and the other four followed suit as she pointed at them in turn, then the hounds fell silent.
The ghostly green light swayed over her,
shining in her eyes as she gazed in anticipation at the Lady. The granite seemed to breathe, then it sighed, and a fiendish female face appeared on its suddenly flesh-like surface.
Judith prostrated herself on the grass. “Hecate, I serve thee!” she cried. “I offer this seal to bring Nicholas Montacute into thy power, that thou might be avenged for what his forefather did. I implore thee to enchant it, that it will be a powerful amulet to bring its owner to me, to suffer the fate he deserves.”
A snakelike curl of fragrant smoke began to rise from the holes of the censer. It twisted and turned anticlockwise around the perimeter of the circle as if dancing, and Judith got up to dance with it. She cast no shadow, and soon the ointment warmed intoxicatingly on her skin. Her senses began to swim, reality receded, and she felt weightless, as if floating on air.
She caressed herself sensuously as she drifted in the green haze of magic. She stroked her nipples and thighs, whispering Nicholas’ name as if he were the one who touched her so intimately. The smoke began to collect in the center of the circle, gradually building into the handsome shape of the master of Wychavon Castle.
Power began to flood through Judith, and her eyes turned vivid emerald green as she stood before the phantasm. Exhilaration vied with triumph. After two hundred years, complete vengeance was at last within her grasp!
“Hecate hath made thee mine now, Nicholas. Thou must return from London before another day passes, thou must desire me with all passion, and be unable to put me from thee. Thou must make me thy wife, the sharer of thy life and wealth, the poison in thy heart, and destroyer of thy happiness.”
Obediently the apparition turned toward her, but as she touched it, she was jarred by a sickening pain. A spectral wind swept the smoke away, and the candles were snuffed, plunging the grove into misty darkness once more. The hellhounds fled snapping and snarling along the valley, and with a cry of fury, Hecate disappeared from the Lady. After a moment the river again began to trickle slowly through the race, gradually gathering force until at last it foamed against the wheel as if it had never been still.
Judith sank to her knees in bewilderment. She felt lightheaded and dazed, and it was several moments before she could collect her wits. What had gone wrong? Something had destroyed the magic, and yet she’d done everything she should. Her gaze fell on the censer, and with a gasp she snatched off the lid to look inside.
She stared at a bed of burned herbs, but of the seal there was no sign. Where was it? Then she remembered tripping on the embroidery thread. The seal must have fallen out then, and she hadn’t noticed!
She scrambled to her feet. If she could find the seal, there was still time to complete the spell before dawn.
Chapter Two
It was more than just the dropping of the seal that had spoiled Judith’s dark magic, for if it had simply lain unnoticed on the village green, all would have been well. But someone else picked it up at the precise moment it became enchanted, and thus innocently purloined all the power Judith had sought for herself.
Verity Windsor had decided to test whether her old nurse, Martha, was right to claim that dew gathered on May Eve was a sovereign cure for freckles. She knew Uncle Joshua would be very displeased with her if he learned she’d crept out in the middle of the night for such a purpose. He’d say that at twenty-three she was old enough to know better, but she hated the freckles on her nose so much she was prepared to try anything to get rid of them.
She paused by the gate in the wall to peep out at the deserted green. Her eyes were the same shade as the lilacs brushing her shoulder, she was of medium height, and her hair was a mass of long golden curls. Beneath her mantle her figure was the ideal willowy shape for the flowing muslins and lawns that were the fashion. Her oval face was considered pretty, although the largeness of her eyes sometimes gave her a rather solemn look, and if it weren’t for the dusting of freckles, she’d have been well pleased with the physical attributes the Almighty had seen fit to bestow upon her. But those freckles were the bane of her life, she loathed them so much she’d resorted to every cosmetic preparation she could find, all to no avail. Hence the May Eve dew.
Seeing no one around, she raised the hood of her blue mantle over her loosely pinned hair and hurried toward the willows along the riverbank. She knew that one of them had a hollow where dew might collect, but before she reached it she trod on something hard in the grass, and with a cry of pain bent to see what it was.
To her surprise she saw a desk seal. Gold-mounted, with a tiger’s eye quartz handle, it was clearly of considerable value. What was it doing on the village green? To her further astonishment, it started sparkling with strange green lights. Her curiosity aroused, she picked it up.
This was the moment Judith’s spell went wrong, for Verity touched the enchanted seal at the very second the witch reached out to the phantasm of Nicholas Montacute. The magic that should have flooded through Judith, entered Verity instead. The green lights leapt from the seal and scattered all over her hand and arm. Her lilac eyes turned fleetingly green, the scent of burning herbs drifted on the air for a moment, then all became normal again, and the seal was just a seal.
Thinking she must have imagined anything odd, Verity turned the seal over. She recognized the double-headed phoenix of the Montacutes, but Lord Montacute had been in London for months now, so what was his seal doing here on the green?
Warm color entered her cheeks, as always happened when she thought of Nicholas Montacute, but then an owl hooted in the willows, and with a start she pushed the seal into her mantle pocket before hurrying on to the tree she was sure would contain dew.
Climbing up, she felt inside the hollow. Sure enough, there was a small pool of moisture. She dipped her fingers in, and rubbed the dew over her face. “Freckles go away, Freckles go away, Be gone from me from this May Day,” she whispered, then scrambled down again and fled back to the house without anyone knowing she’d been out.
* * *
A third person had been affected by the magic in the oak grove, and that was Nicholas Montacute himself. As Judith cast her spell, he was just leaving White’s club in St. James’s Street with his close friend, Oliver Henderson. Both men wore evening clothes, and had spent a profitable few hours at the hazard tables. They tapped their top hats on in unison, flexed their fingers in their white gloves, then strolled toward Piccadilly with their canes swinging.
The ninth Lord Montacute of Wychavon was thirty-two years old, tall, athletic, and strikingly handsome. His profile was said to be the most classically perfect in England, with a strong but not prominent jaw, a straight nose, and firm lips. His thick dark hair was wavy rather than curly, and his long-lashed gray eyes gave him a rather cool air, but when he chose he had a charm so winning few could refuse him; at such times his smile was all that was warm and engaging.
Oliver was two years Nicholas’s senior and stockily built, with sandy hair and a complexion that flushed easily. He had light brown eyes, a good-natured face, and he was so happily married he believed a wife could be the making of Nicholas too. But the only liaison of consequence his friend had enjoyed recently had ended rather abruptly the previous autumn, and was most definitely a forbidden topic of conversation.
He glanced at Nicholas and observed his rather withdrawn expression. “What’s the matter, Nick?” he asked lightly.
“The matter? Nothing, why do you ask?”
“Because I know you. Something’s been up recently, and I think you should get it off your chest.”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Yes, it is. You’ve been oddly quiet, and I can’t help wondering if, well, if it has something to do with the young lady you ceased seeing last fall?”
Nicholas halted. “I don’t wish to discuss it, Oliver.”
“Damn it, Nick, why are you bottling it up like this?”
“I’m not bottling anything up.”
“No?”
“No!”
The sharpness of the response made Oliver shif
t uncomfortably. “Very well, if you insist.”
“I do. And I want you to promise that Anna won’t attempt to matchmake on my behalf. I’ve had enough of amours for the time being.”
“I’ll do my best, but you know Anna. She thinks you’re long overdue for matrimonial bliss. I think the same, as it happens.”
“I know, but I’ll marry in my own good time, thank you.”
Nicholas smiled then. “Besides, who’s to say marriage would make me as nauseatingly happy as you?”
Oliver was a little offended. “I resent your choice of adjective.”
“Would deliriously suit better?”
“Yes.” Oliver was mollified. “Is it so wrong to still be head over heels in love after seven years together? There’s only one thing that could make us more complete, and that’s a child, but after all this time I fear we must resign ourselves to the inevitable.”
“Don’t give up hope.”
They walked on, and after a moment Oliver glanced at Nicholas again. “How long do you intend to remain in town?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I’m not complaining; it’s been good to have you around for so long.”
“I’m glad to be of service.” Nicholas halted suddenly, staring at something just ahead on the pavement. “That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Can’t you see it? There’s a peculiar green light just in front of us.”
Oliver glanced around. “Hanged if I can see anything.”
“You must be able to, it’s like a damned green lantern! There’s a strange smell too. Like woodsmoke. No, more like herbs. Yes, that’s it, burning herbs.”
Oliver sniffed, and then shook his head. “No, I can’t smell anything either. Look, dear fellow, if you can see green lights and smell mysterious smells, perhaps it’s time you toddled back to Shropshire for a rest. London’s clearly too much for your delicate constitution.”