by Sandra Heath
“I’ve taken some communion wafers from the church,” the nurse replied reassuringly. She knew that holy wafers weren’t as powerful as the snakestone, but she was more worried for Verity than for herself. Anyone who directly interfered with Judith’s spells, whether innocently or not, was bound to be in considerable danger. Verity knew nothing about shielding herself from witches, and Martha would feel a great deal better knowing she had the very best protection possible.
“Are you absolutely certain you wish me to have it?” Verity asked again.
“Beyond all doubt.” Martha looked intently at her. “Please tell me what happened yesterday, my dear,” she urged gently, for the complete silence on the matter made her feel very anxious.
Verity shook her head, color flooding instantly into her cheeks. “I—I’d rather not, Martha.”
The nurse was concerned, but could say no more. She brushed the awkward silence over. “Your riding habit has been sent from the castle. I put it in one of the trunks. It’s been very neatly repaired after your fall.”
“Thank you.” Mentioning the fall jogged Verity’s memory. “Martha, I saw a corpse candle yesterday when I fell from my horse.”
Martha’s eyes swung swiftly to hers. “A corpse candle? Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve never seen one before, but I can’t think what else it could be.” Verity described the little ball of orange fire. “I—I thought it had come for me,” she finished with a rueful smile.
“No one sees their own corpse light, my dear,” Martha said quickly and then glanced toward the window. “So, the churchyard watcher’s cart will soon be heard in the village again. It came for the admiral, now he will come for someone else.”
Joshua’s impatient voice echoed up through the house. “Verity!”
“Coming, Uncle!” She hugged the nurse and then hurried from the room.
* * *
Judith was watching Windsor House from beneath the willows on the green. A little earlier she had noticed that the telltale emerald glint had vanished from Verity’s window, and she had been using her witch’s powers to try to ascertain where the seal had gone when Joshua’s traveling carriage was brought around to the gate.
As the first trunk was carried out from the house, she had been startled to realize that the rumors her servants had heard that morning were actually true, the magistrate and his niece really were leaving suddenly for London.
Her first fear was that for some reason they were taking the seal with them, but as she concentrated on the luggage that was loaded on the carriage, she detected nothing. Gradually she realized the seal was no longer anywhere near the house, although it was somewhere in the village. Where, though? And who had taken it away? Her eyes flickered then, for it was easy enough to guess who was responsible, she thought, glancing up at Martha, who now appeared at Verity’s window.
Judith watched as the last hastily packed trunk was carried out. A small crowd of village children had gathered by the gate, but then the vicar rode up on his cob and ordered them all back before reining in to talk to the coachman. The witch’s gaze was pensive. There clearly hadn’t been any travel preparations in hand yesterday when she had tried to persuade that fool of a maid to hand over the seal, but now, quite suddenly, the departure was imminent. Why?
She smiled. What did it matter why? Verity Windsor was about to go far away to London, leaving the seal—and Nicholas Montacute—in Wychavon.
Joshua and Verity emerged from the house, and Judith noticed how very pale and tense the latter appeared. Something was definitely up. Oh, to know what it was. As Joshua paused to speak to the vicar, Verity turned to wave good-bye to Martha, and the witch realized she was wearing the snakestone. So the old woman thought her mistress would need protection in London, did she?
Foolish Martha, for Verity was no longer of any interest at all now that she was conveniently leaving Wychavon. But Martha herself was a different matter. By pitting herself against someone of infinitely greater power and knowledge than herself, the interfering old biddy had become very irritating indeed.
Joshua helped his niece into the carriage, and the vicar’s cob danced nervously around, almost unseating him as the children raced noisily after the departing vehicle. At that moment, from the direction of the castle there came the distant report of shooting practice.
Judith smiled a little as she emerged from beneath the willows. It was time to remind his lordship of her existence.
* * *
Nicholas and Oliver were firing pistols at a target in the park and had been at their sport for some time when at last Oliver flung himself wearily on the grass to rest a while. They had brought a wicker basket of food and drink with them, and he selected a bottle of wine, which he opened to pour into two glasses.
Nicholas glanced at him. “Isn’t it a little early for wine?”
“It’s never too early for wine.”
Nicholas smiled and took aim at the target, squeezing the trigger slowly. The pistol fired, and the distant jolt of the target told him he’d scored a bull’s-eye.
Oliver surveyed him. “What do you intend to do about the delightful Miss Windsor?” he asked suddenly.
Nicholas turned. “I don’t know.”
“Damn it, Nick, you compromised her completely yesterday!”
“I’m well aware of that, but you saw her uncle. He’d as soon put a bullet in my brain as allow me near his niece again.”
“But do you want to be near her again, that’s the question?”
Nicholas smiled a little. “Oh, yes, there’s no doubt of that,” he murmured.
“Well, I trust you mean to do it in a civilized manner this time, because Anna’s in a decided miff with you for treating a young lady with such disregard for the rules.”
Nicholas joined him on the grass. “Anna’s in a miff with me for more than just Miss Windsor,” he said with a sigh.
“And rightly so,” Oliver reminded him. “Last summer, you—”
Nicholas sat forward abruptly. “God damn it, Oliver, why must I be condemned for events last year? I have to say it grieves me just a little that you and Anna are always so quick to pass sentence on me. Why must I be the villain of the piece?”
“Well, whatever the truth of last year, yesterday’s little episode didn’t exactly bestow a halo upon your noble brow, did it?” Oliver pointed out coolly.
“Yesterday was different.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, because yesterday I was guilty,” Nicholas picked up his glass and drank a little.
Oliver’s brows drew together then, and he nodded toward a copper beech about a hundred yards away. “Who’s that?” he asked.
Nicholas looked where he indicated and saw a woman in black mounted on a gray horse. In spite of her veiled hat, he recognized the admiral’s widow straight away.
Oliver glanced at him. “Well?”
“She, er, she’s the widow of old Admiral Villiers, who died rather inappropriately on St. Valentine’s Day.”
“Old Admiral Villiers? I have to say his relict doesn’t look elderly.” Oliver studied the rider’s curvaceous, fashionably clad figure.
“She isn’t.” Briefly Nicholas told him the strange tale of the admiral’s bride.
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Found naked in a garden during a thunderstorm on Halloween?” he repeated in disbelief.
Nicholas nodded. “Her memory as lost as her clothing,” he murmured, his glance returning to the figure beneath the tree.
“My, my, Wychavon is an interesting backwater,” Oliver declared.
“Oh, it’s that all right,” Nicholas said, thinking of his own recent experiences.
“So why does she have the freedom of the castle park?” Oliver asked then.
“She doesn’t.”
“Then isn’t she presuming somewhat?”
“I, er, suppose she is.”
Oliver glanced at him, thinking his manner a little odd. “First Miss Windsor, now a lady in black. Y
ou are a dark horse, and no mistake.”
Nicholas frowned. “Damn it, I’ve never even been introduced to Mrs. Villiers, let alone ...” He didn’t finish.
“Then take my advice and get to know her, for a widow is a far safer bet than the Miss Windsors of this world. One can do as one wishes with a widow, if you follow my meaning.”
Nicholas got up. “I don’t want to know her,” he said honestly, for there was something about the woman that made him shudder. He could feel her eyes upon him behind her veil, and he knew she was willing him to go over and speak. Suddenly something snapped in him. This woman had an uncanny knack of appearing and disappearing, and he had had enough of it. Thrusting his glass into Oliver’s hand, he strode toward the tree.
* * *
Judith breathed out with relief as she saw him approaching at last. She had been exerting the full force of her will upon him and had begun to think it was to no avail. The effort made her tremble slightly, although she hid it as he reached her horse and seized the bridle.
“Madam, I fear you are trespassing,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then you will not mind if I request you to leave,” he said, still uncomfortably conscious of her shining eyes behind the veil. Everything about her disturbed him in an unpleasant way, and he wanted her to go away.
“I’m sure you don’t really wish me to go,” she said softly, raising the veil to reveal her face.
Her beauty left him cold. “Yes, madam, I do.”
Anger flickered through her as she became increasingly aware of his indifference, if not to say antagonism. “But will you wish it still if I come to you again tonight?” she asked.
Again tonight? The words shook him, for they disproved his theory about having dreamt events hitherto. He released the bridle as if it scorched him. “Who are you?” he breathed as a primitive unease suddenly welled sickeningly through him.
She smiled. “I’m whatever you wish, my lord,” she whispered, leaning down to touch his cheek.
He moved sharply back out of reach. “I don’t want you anywhere near me! Please go!”
Somehow she managed to maintain a tender smile, as if nothing he had said or done had offended in any way. “You will not wish to dismiss me,” she promised softly. Then, before he could reply she turned her horse and rode swiftly away.
He gazed after her and was unable to suppress a shiver.
Chapter Fourteen
Joshua and Verity broke their journey at the Royal Oak Hotel in Cheltenham. Her uncle had said very little on the road or at dinner, and his silence made her feel so guilty she was glad to retire to her room.
But trying to sleep didn’t make things any easier, for as she lay there in the darkness, her thoughts were all of Nicholas. Whenever she closed her eyes, she was with him again, either at the mill or in the room at the castle. She could feel his arms around her, and his lips on hers. She could smell the southernwood on his clothes and taste his kisses.
She tossed and turned. If only she weren’t so susceptible to him now. It had been so much easier when he had virtually ignored her, for then she’d been at liberty to adore him from a distance. Now it was very different, and her whole existence was in confusion. Where he was concerned, suddenly she seemed incapable of conducting herself with propriety, giving in to sexual temptation that only just stopped short of actual surrender!
She’d never been kissed before, let alone kissed the way he had kissed her! And she had certainly never experienced the astonishing feelings that resulted from pressing her body to his.
Feeling hot and bothered, she sat up in bed and pushed her tangled hair back from her flushed face. The room was lit by a solitary candle, and the glow curved gently over the cream-papered walls. She drew her knees up and clasped her arms around them. That she was hopelessly and irretrievably in love was a fact she could no longer ignore, nor was the fact that she didn’t really know what he thought or felt.
All she could be certain of was that he was attracted to her, but did he feel anything more than physical desire? Was his heart engaged, as hers was? He hadn’t said anything when Uncle Joshua caught them virtually in flagrante delicto. Was that because the whole thing meant nothing to him? Or was it that he didn’t feel the moment was right?
There were so many questions spinning around in her head, all of them unanswered. Tears stung her eyes as she rested her forehead against her knees. “Oh, Nicholas, I love you so much,” she whispered, as a nearby church clock struck midnight.
* * *
The midnight chimes of the church clock in Wychavon carried on still air to the grove, where Judith danced around the Lady. Green light shone on her body, and smoke curled from the censer as dried mud from Nicholas’s footprint burned among the herbs. Hecate’s demonic face had appeared on the stone, the river was still, the spectral hounds howled, and the moon hung low above the trees, but tonight there was a watcher among the trees at the edge of the grove.
Martha had been leaving Sadie’s cottage when she saw the witch slipping out of the village, and so she had followed. Keeping out of sight, she saw Judith emerge naked from the mill with the candles, wand, and censer. Now she watched as the witch performed her sinful rituals.
The nurse fingered the holy wafers in her pocket as she guessed to whom the demonic face on the stone belonged, for everyone knew that Hecate was the goddess of witchcraft, and that a stone circle dedicated to her had once stood here in the grove.
At these thoughts, Martha suddenly realized who Judith might really be. Meg Ashton had been Hecate’s handmaiden and had worshipped the goddess in this place, practicing diabolic black arts until retribution finally overtook her. Now Judith Villiers served Hecate here too. The old woman gazed fearfully at the face on the Lady. Hecate was believed to have imprisoned her loyal servant in the stone two hundred years ago, but had that servant been freed last Halloween? And if so, what was her purpose?
The nurse shrank back among the bushes at the edge of the grove as the hellhounds suddenly fell silent, and the green light increased to an unearthly glow. Judith disappeared, and all Martha saw was a brown hare leaping away in the direction of the castle. Hecate’s face remained on the Lady, and the candles swayed gently, for there was no breeze, but of the witch herself there was no sign at all.
Martha’s heart thundered as she stared toward the castle. Did all this have something to do with Nicholas Montacute, whose seal was clearly of such consequence? Back in Tudor times, Meg Ashton had tried to wreak revenge upon the Lord Montacute who had offended both her and her grim mistress, and she had succeeded in killing his pregnant wife before being caught and sent to the stake. That was all the nurse knew of the story. She wished she possessed more details, but only the bare outline had been handed down over the centuries.
The wisewoman’s gaze returned to the center of the grove. Judith had to be Meg Ashton returned, for only a witch as powerful as Meg could transform herself into a hare. A cold finger traced down the nurse’s spine. There was great evil abroad again in Wychavon, and no one in the village was of sufficient knowledge to fight it. Her own powers were inadequate for confronting Hecate and her kind.
Suddenly a new sound carried on the still air from the direction of the millpool. It wasn’t the gurgling of flowing water, but a heaving and splashing as if something large were hauling itself up onto the bank. Then there was the creak of wheels, and the slow clip-clop of hooves, as well as the occasional flick of a whip, but nothing was visible.
But Martha knew what was there. It was the churchyard watcher, and as she looked she saw the faint marks left by cart wheels trundling relentlessly across the grass toward the track that led up to the road. The Lady and the witch’s circle lay directly in the path of the invisible cart, but the watcher served a higher power than Hecate, and had no cause to show respect.
The wisewoman pressed back in the tree. Her mouth had run dry and her heart was now pounding so fast she couldn’t count the beats. She knew old Admira
l Villiers was at the reins, for this was where he’d gone to his death. Now he was preparing to collect the next soul. Whose was it? She prayed it wouldn’t be Davey’s.
The ghostly cart entered the witch’s circle, passing within inches of the Lady, and knocking the black candles and censer aside. Hecate shrieked with fury and vanished from the granite, and the hellhounds fled yelping into the night. The watcher drove on without check, and the sound of his cart gradually diminished as it made its way resolutely up the track toward the corner where Verity had seen the corpse candle.
Martha looked back into the grove and with a start saw Judith lying senseless in the remains of the circle. Her red-gold hair was spread in tangled profusion over the grass, and her eyes were closed. Thin traces of smoke still rose from the scattered candles and the censer, and gradually the deathly silence was broken by the sound of the river beginning to flow again.
As the water filled the race, making the ancient mill wheel creak, Martha emerged cautiously from the bushes and went toward the witch. A cursory glance told her Judith wasn’t dead, merely unconscious. The nurse gazed down at her, and whispered, “Tonight you turned into a hare, and I, Martha Cansford, saw it with my own eyes. I know you for a witch.”
Taking some communion wafers from her pocket, the old woman crouched down to press it to Judith’s arm. There was a hissing sound, and a red mark appeared as the witch’s flesh burned.
Martha straightened again, and hurried fearfully away. She was out of her depth and didn’t know what to do. Clutching her shawl around her, she made her way up the track in the wake of the watcher’s cart. Then she halted with a startled gasp, for the corpse candle Verity had seen now hovered in front of her as well.
The nurse’s eyes filled with tears as she stared at its flickering orange flames. “Have you come for Davey?” she whispered, but the question remained unanswered as the ball of fire disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
Then a vixen shrieked somewhere in the woods, and the uncanny sound echoed over the whole valley.
* * *