Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE Lytton Park
One: The Summoning
Two: Marcus Dent
Three: Snow-Still
Four: Grimoire
Five: No Going Back
Six: A Natural Death
Seven: Work No Magick
PART TWO Hatfield House
Eight: Much Suspected
Nine: A Question of Blood
Ten: Invictus
Eleven: Possession
Twelve: Blood Magick
Thirteen: Lux
Fourteen: Like the World’s About to End
Fifteen: Aspicio
Sixteen: Torturer
Seventeen: Meg Lytton Is a Witch
PART THREE London
Eighteen: The Lady Elizabeth’s Plan
Nineteen: Freakish Horrors
Twenty: Bladderwrack
PART FOUR Spain
Twenty-one: Castle de Castillo
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Victoria Lamb
Copyright
About the Book
Meg Lytton was born with a powerful gift, as her mother was before her. But practising witchcraft in Tudor England puts Meg’s life in constant danger – as does her secret betrothal to the handsome young priest, Alejandro de Castillo.
When Meg discovers an ancient wooden casket containing her mother’s magickal instruments, she finds she is able to take her own spells and skills to breathtaking new heights. But something in the grimoire attracts dark spirits to Meg and those around her – and her old enemy, Marcus Dent, wants it for his own evil purposes. Meg is in greater danger than ever – and her future with Alejandro hangs in the balance.
For Gary Abbott
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.
Gerard Manley Hopkins: No Worst, There Is None
PART ONE
Lytton Park
Christmastide 1555
ONE
The Summoning
Lytton Park, Oxfordshire
‘Face north.’
Slowly I obeyed, shuffling round on bare feet. The fire had burned low and I could see only the faintest glimmer of light through the blindfold. But the spell was familiar to me from my training as a witch.
Set four candles about the summoning circle. Four black candles for the four points of the compass.
I shivered, for despite the chill December evening I wore nothing but a simple shift. Yet I was too excited to notice the cold, my heart beating hard, my fingertips already tingling with power.
Pungent smells filled my narrow, low-ceilinged bedchamber: myrrh, juniper berries, scorched yew, and a sickly scent I did not recognize. The preparations were almost complete.
The spirits may be conjured by bell and black candle, and by the burning of churchyard yew and crow’s feather.
I ought to have been afraid.
The last time I had tried this spell, I had almost destroyed everything in my world. My mistress, the Lady Elizabeth, sister to Queen Mary, had insisted on seeking advice from her dead mother, Anne Boleyn. I had managed to conjure the executed queen’s spirit, but the timing of the spell had not been auspicious. Something else had come through with her from the underworld: a cruel, dark spirit which had threatened not only our lives with its malice, but the whole of England.
Tonight, though, my friend Richard would be my guide, to lessen the chances of our spell going wrong again.
Besides, this time I was summoning up a spirit for my own reasons. My mistress had banished me from Hatfield House, on the advice of her old governess, Kat Ashley. The Queen had reluctantly dropped the charge of treason against her younger sister, but Elizabeth was still out of favour, and now convinced that the presence of a witch in her household – however secret – would get her arrested again. I was back with my father at our family home in Oxfordshire, but I felt certain my destiny would lead me back to the Lady Elizabeth in the future. And to stand against my enemies, to learn best how to use my powers, I needed help – a magickal help that could only come from the world of the spirits.
‘Take two steps forward. Enough. You are now almost at the edge of the circle.’ I heard the rustle of his conjuror’s robe as he rose from his knees behind me. ‘Wait for my word.’
The bare flesh on my arms grew goose-pimpled as I waited, and not just from the cold.
I had no doubt that this summoning would succeed. Richard was apprentice to Master John Dee, the Queen’s astrologer, a man famed as a conjuror and magician, and had learned the craft from his master. But this was still a dangerous spell.
Richard struck the bell three times with his athame, then raised his voice. ‘Hear us, spirit winds of the north! We ask that you heed our call, by the power of fire, and by the power of sacrifice.’
He paused, and I guessed he must be pouring a dollop of thick, dark blood from the altar cup into his palm.
‘And by the power of this blood.’
His wet finger brushed first my forehead and chin, then stroked from one cheek to the other, completing the sign of the cross in blood.
‘May the stars look kindly on our enterprise,’ Richard continued in a ringing voice. ‘May the dead hear us and obey. By the sacred time, by the dark of the moon, by these spells and this circle, I ask that the spirit be subdued to our will and appear before us.’
A thrill ran through me as Dee’s apprentice turned away, beginning to chant the ninefold charm. My breathing shallow, I struggled to contain my excitement as the spell came to completion. From behind my blindfold I caught a brief flicker – the candles all dipping together – then the room grew abruptly cold, as though the spirits were approaching.
I lifted my arms in an age-old gesture of welcome, waiting for Richard to finish.
At last he leaned close to my ear, and his breath scorched my cheek. ‘Call her,’ he whispered, and I opened my mouth to obey.
But at that moment I felt a chill draught on my bare feet, then heard Richard growl under his breath in frustration.
‘What do you want, Spaniard?’ he demanded. ‘This is no place for you.’
Impatiently I tore at my blindfold.
Alejandro stood framed in the doorway, his face dark with tension, raising a lantern to illuminate the room.
‘What are you doing up here, Meg?’ Alejandro stared first at me, then the magickal paraphernalia scattered about the chalk-drawn circle. His gaze flicked to the young man by my side. To the long shift I wore – perhaps a little scanty to be wearing when alone with another man. ‘And with him?’
Oh, Alejandro. What a pest you are, I thought. Yet my heart flooded with tenderness at the sight of him. My Spanish betrothed, so passionate and intense: dark-haired, dark-eyed, graceful as a dancer, both on foot and on horseback. He was strong too, muscular and broad-shouldered, skilled with a long sword, a born soldier. And glaring at Dee’s apprentice with undisguised jealousy as though he intended to draw that dagger at his belt and use it.
There was no doubt in my heart that Alejandro loved me, nor that I loved him. Whether we could spend our lives together was less certain. The military priesthood he still hoped to join might permit their priests to marry, but I was convinced his masters would not extend that courtesy to a witch.
But he had still risked disrupting this spell, and I could not help my flicker of irritation.
‘Working a spell,’ I told him, ‘as you can plainly see. Why have you interrupted us?’
Alejandro set his lantern on the table and looked at me broodingly. ‘What manner of spell?’
He only wants
to protect me, I reminded myself, counting slowly to ten before answering.
Richard put a hand on my arm as I drew breath. ‘Wait,’ he said urgently. ‘Don’t tell the priest. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Keep out of this, boy,’ Alejandro snarled, though in fact the two young men were about the same age. Richard was a head shorter though, and lean as a greyhound, so he always appeared younger. And I could see from Richard’s tightening expression how much that jibe irked him. But he should not have called Alejandro ‘priest’, when he knew perfectly well that he was still only a novice.
I held up a hand, silencing them. ‘I am attempting to conjure the spirit of my mother, Catherine Canley, and speak with her.’
Alejandro stared from me to Richard. ‘Are you mad? Or have you forgotten what happened when you summoned Anne Boleyn? You conjured a creature out of Hell along with the dead queen.’
‘I have not forgotten. This time will be different.’
‘Why?’ he demanded, his dark brows twitching together in disbelief. ‘Because you have Master Dee’s errand boy at your side?’
I saw the love and concern in Alejandro’s tortured face, and longed to smooth away his frown. But he was right, at least in part. The spell was dangerous, and possibly foolhardy. But we had to try. There were still questions I needed to answer, not just about my enemy Marcus Dent, but about myself and the extent of my own power.
‘John Dee himself was unable to lay that malevolent spirit to rest,’ he continued, watching me closely. ‘It nearly led to your death, Meg! Do you seriously believe his apprentice will know what to do if a demon comes out of the void instead of your mother’s ghost?’
‘You don’t understand, Alejandro. There are things my mother may be able to tell us,’ I muttered, folding my arms tightly across my chest. ‘Important things.’
Much as I loved him, I did not like my betrothed interfering with my magick. He did not understand how much it meant to me.
And how could he understand? He had grown up wishing to enter the Catholic priesthood, while at the same time I had been training to be a witch. He was Spanish, I was English. We were complete opposites.
But we had one thing in common. Alejandro never gave up easily either.
‘Promise me you will wait until Master Dee can come in person and work the spell for you. If you must raise your mother’s spirit, I would trust the conjuror before his apprentice to keep you safe.’
Richard snarled, ‘My master works for Bishop Bonner in London now, as well you know. He cannot be spared from his work.’
‘His work?’ Alejandro flashed back at him. ‘Is that what you call it, sniffing out heretics for the bonfire?’
‘Master Dee had no choice but to accept Bonner’s invitation to work for him. Even the Lady Elizabeth agreed that he must, for it was either that or lose his own life.’ Richard was openly hostile now, as ready for a fight as Alejandro. ‘And he may sniff them out, but it is the Spanish Inquisition, your unholy Catholic priests, who light the bonfires under them.’
For a moment there was silence, both of them glaring at each other. Then Alejandro turned his head to look at me. His gaze moved over my face, no doubt noting the dried streaks of blood. His mouth tightened.
‘You insist on continuing with this spell, mi querida?’
‘Yes,’ I said uncomfortably.
His eyes flickered hotly, but to my surprise he did not continue to argue. ‘You are a stubborn wretch, Meg Lytton, you know that?’ His voice grew husky, his Spanish accent very pronounced. ‘Muy bien, if I cannot persuade you to stop, then I shall stay and keep guard over you myself.’ To my dismay, he closed the door and stood in front of it, crossing his arms. ‘Proceed.’
Richard and I exchanged wry glances. This was not exactly how we had planned the spell to go.
‘Oh, very well.’ I knew it would be impossible to shift him. ‘Unless you wish to stop, Richard, and try again another night?’
‘What, and miss the best alignment of planets?’
Impatiently Richard gestured me to step back into place, then replaced the blindfold so that I was once more in darkness. ‘The circle has not been broken. We shall continue.’ His voice grew curt. ‘Extinguish that lantern, priest. And do not interrupt us again, whatever you may see or hear.’
Blindfolded, I listened to Richard’s rhythmic chanting as he slipped back through the ninefold charm, weaving it about the circle once more.
At first I was very much aware of Alejandro in the room, but then my witch’s mind settled into the melodic words and actions of the spell, and I began to sway to their dance-like rhythm, my fingers once more tingling with power. It was like falling into a dream, except that all my senses were on fire at the same time, conscious of everything around me, the creaks and shifts of the old house where I had been born and grew up, birds calling to each other outside in the gathering dusk, the thin whistle of wind under the eaves . . .
‘Call her,’ Richard whispered in my ear, just as he had done before our spell was interrupted.
‘Let the curtain be parted twixt life and death!’ I lifted my arms in welcome. ‘O spirits of the departed, hear me! Catherine Canley, hear me! I who am thy daughter call thee out from the shades of the other world. Come, spirit of my mother, and stand before thy living flesh and blood.’
The room grew chill and my voice faltered, forgetting the words Richard had taught me.
It was hard not to recall the last time I had summoned the spirit of the dead in this way. Inexperienced in the ways of dark magick, I had dared to call forth the Princess Elizabeth’s executed mother, Anne Boleyn, and she had come to us in the darkness at Hampton Court, a silvery floating lady with sad eyes. But then a terrible storm had descended upon the circle, whipping violently at us, threatening to tear apart the palace brick by brick, the wind howling in our faces . . .
My senses were suddenly assailed by the powerful scent of burning rosemary; Richard kneeling behind me within the safety of the circle, chanting under his breath, had scorched the dry sprig in the candle flame.
I staggered slightly under a sense of weight, and heard Alejandro draw a sharp breath.
‘She is here,’ Richard breathed.
I had known before he spoke, my flesh goose-pimpled with cold once more, my heart beating thunderously in the silence. There was indeed a presence in the room with us, and it was watching me. The tiny hairs lifted on the back of my neck and my scalp tingled. It was like smelling smoke on a dry afternoon, but not knowing from which direction it came.
‘Madre di Dios,’ Alejandro muttered, and I guessed he must be making the sign of the cross.
Triumph licked like fire along my veins. I dragged off my blindfold and glanced about, my eyes adjusting to the glimmer of candlelight.
I had been prepared for fear. Perhaps even terror. My mother had been a powerful witch, my aunt had often told me that, and to summon such a spirit was always dangerous, even for her own child.
What I had not expected was to feel overwhelmed by love.
My mother had died when I was a young child, and I had little memory of her alive. A haunting scent, laughing blue eyes and a pair of warm enveloping arms about me, that was all I could remember. Catherine Canley had always been just a name to me, a myth, a ghost from my past. Yet here she was before us, a beautiful woman with long fair hair and the same striking blue eyes I remembered.
She floated just beyond the reach of my arms, watching me intently. I had been warned not to look too deeply into the eyes of the dead, and knew not to touch any part of the apparition. But indeed it was hard not to stare, for her face was my own. It was like looking into a mirror.
‘M . . . Mother,’ I stammered. ‘Catherine Canley.’
The ghost of my mother drifted closer, stretching out slender arms, but stopped just short of the circle.
‘Meg, my dearest child.’ Her voice, like that of the dead Queen Anne, was dry as the rustle of leaves on the wind. But her clear eyes held a warning.
‘Do not touch me. Or you too will be drawn into the land of the dead.’
I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. My mother was so beautiful and ethereal, her skin pale as marble, even her lips, parting now in a smile. It was so cruel that we had been parted when I was only five years old. She could have taught me so much . . .
‘My sister Jane taught you all you needed to know,’ my mother said softly, reading my thoughts as though I had spoken them aloud. ‘Do not grieve for me, Meg. It was my time to leave this earth. And your time will come too. But not yet. And not until you have accomplished those deeds which you are destined to do.’
It was hard to know if she was speaking aloud or inside my head, or even if the other two in the room could hear her. I was entranced by the rustling whisper of her voice and could not seem to tear my gaze from hers.
Richard cleared his throat behind me, and abruptly I was able to look away. We did not have much time to gather the information I needed, he was reminding me with that cough. These apparitions rarely lasted more than a few moments.
I struggled to shake off the cloying spell of her presence, trying to recall my mission. ‘Mother, I need to . . . to ask you something.’
‘You want to know about the witchfinder called Marcus Dent.’
I swallowed. ‘Yes.’
Marcus Dent. Witchfinder. The man who had condemned Aunt Jane to the stake. Once my suitor, now my mortal enemy . . .
I wondered if the others were cold too, but did not dare look at Alejandro, a shadowy figure to my left in the darkness. He was standing outside the safety of our circle, I suddenly realized. If my mother’s spirit chose to approach Alejandro, perhaps even to touch him, it was possible she could kill him. And although she was my mother, I knew the spirits of the dead could never be entirely trusted.
‘The man Dent is dangerous, my child.’
‘He wants me dead,’ I whispered. ‘It was prophesied – some years ago in Germany, by a sorceress he had condemned – that a witch would kill him, and Marcus believes that witch to be me. Is he right?’
Witchrise Page 1