Witchrise

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘You left some of your things here.’ Again Richard grinned, aware of my outrage and enjoying it. ‘Small items. A few hairpins, a pair of old shoes . . . I used them to work the counterspell for me.’

  ‘And now that I have returned?’

  ‘We should erect the protective barrier again.’ Richard met my eyes. ‘Tomorrow after breakfast?’

  I nodded. I disliked the idea that anyone, even Richard, had found a way round my spells of protection. But I couldn’t close my instinctive thought that it would be too late anyway to erect the barrier – a man as powerful as Marcus Dent would surely cloak his own spells, make it nigh-impossible to keep him from us once he had breached the boundaries. It was a weakness in my armour that I had not foreseen. ‘I must be more careful what I discard in future.’

  ‘Burn everything,’ Richard agreed cheerfully. ‘Or bury it. That is my master’s way. John Dee leaves nothing for his enemies to use against him.’

  ‘How is Master Dee?’ Elizabeth turned from her silent scrutiny of the dark grounds. ‘I often think of the astrologer. His advice to me at our past meetings seems more true than ever these days. Have you heard from him since the last letter you showed me?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘I shall write to him myself.’ Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘Oh, but I can’t. He is still in Bishop Bonner’s employ. It would not be safe.’

  Bishop Bonner. A devout cleric who famously spent much of his time questioning Protestant heretics and sending to the stake those who would not abandon their faith. The Lady Elizabeth was right to fear him.

  Richard hesitated. ‘If you can tell me what message you wish to relay, I can write in code to my master.’

  ‘Thank you, I shall.’ With a gesture she dismissed Kat Ashley from the room, then turned to me sharply as soon as the three of us were alone. ‘I have been thinking, Meg. The failure of the spell to turn my love away from Robbie must surely mean that it is a pure love, a love that cannot be blocked by magick. So, Meg, have you considered how to bring me to visit Master Dudley without discovery? Or at least fetch me news of him and his wife, Amy? I must know if he is truly happy with her.

  ‘For if he is happily married,’ she continued, ‘if Robert has lied to me for the sake of advancement when I am Queen, then I will abandon this madness without the need for any further spells, no matter how pure and honest my love. I am no thief, to steal away a man whose proper place is in another woman’s arms.’

  I had been thinking of the far-seeing spell in my mother’s grimoire for the past few days, and decided to mention it now, though I felt sure Richard would not approve.

  ‘How if I were able to visit Master Dudley on your behalf, and bring back news of him?’

  Her head swung sharply, her small dark eyes narrowed on my face. ‘When?’

  ‘This very night. Here and now, if you can put your trust in me.’

  I saw disbelief in her face. She looked hard at Richard. ‘This can be done?’

  ‘I believe so, my lady.’

  ‘How?’

  Richard spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I have no answer for you, my lady. The thing is possible over short distances. Though Master Dudley is at court, is he not?’ He looked at me warningly. ‘That may be too far for Meg’s power to reach.’

  ‘I do not know where Robert is,’ the princess admitted. ‘He may be at court. Or he may be at home with his wife.’

  ‘It will be difficult if I do not know for sure where he is.’ Then I remembered how Richard had lowered my barrier of protective spells. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned there. ‘Do you have anything of Master Dudley’s? A letter, perhaps? Or a keepsake?’

  She stared, and I saw a haughty flash of anger in her eyes. The Lady Elizabeth disliked her private affairs being too openly discussed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It may help my spell.’

  ‘I see.’ The princess looked pained, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Look away and close your eyes. Both of you.’

  Surprised, I closed my eyes and bent my head. A moment later, I heard a rustle, then a quick step, and something cold was placed in my hand.

  ‘There,’ Elizabeth said huskily. ‘Robert Dudley gave me his likeness as a keepsake. It was painted by one of his sisters some three or four years ago. He would have been about twenty then. And here is a letter he wrote to me.’ Elizabeth handed it to me reluctantly, rolled up and tied with a red ribbon, though from its creased state the paper looked to have been studied many times. She added hurriedly, ‘Only you must promise not to read it!’

  ‘You have my word on it, my lady.’

  I looked down at the miniature portrait of Robert Dudley, done rather neatly considering its size, then set into a circular frame. Dark eyes, dark hair, a sallow complexion. Robert Dudley might almost have been Spanish, but for the stoutly English way he bore himself, one fist at his hip, the other resting on the head of an adoring hound.

  Master Robert Dudley looked very young, but bold with it. There was a steady look to his eyes, a daring fearlessness which was most attractive, and I saw at once why Elizabeth had fallen in love with such a man, a fellow prisoner in the Tower, a noble stripped of his lands and title, and almost deprived of his life . . .

  It must have been hard for Elizabeth not to think of her own suffering when she witnessed his.

  ‘Well, what do you think of Master Dudley?’ Elizabeth asked at last, a note of impatience in her voice, and I realized she had been watching me eagerly as I studied the miniature.

  ‘He is very handsome, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ The princess drew a long breath. Her chest rose under the narrow bodice, her lips curving into a rare smile. ‘And I wish he were here with me now, however wrong that might be. Then at least I would know he is safe, that his enemies at court have not gained any advantage over him. Both his enemies and mine, for they are the same.’

  ‘I shall do my best to bring you news of him, my lady. I do not know how successful the spell will be, when the distance to be travelled is so far . . . Well, let me try.’

  I set down the miniature and letter, and placed a hand on each, closing my eyes as I let their essence rise up through my fingers.

  As soon as I took up the hazel wand, its power filled me. My fingers tingled with that old familiar sensation, painful and exciting, of having been stung with nettles. I thought of Robert Dudley, saw the handsome young courtier in my mind’s eye, and silently asked the hazel wand to find Dudley for me, to ‘take me to him’.

  Eyes still closed, I murmured the command word, ‘Aspicio,’ lifted the wand, and almost immediately felt a tugging at my back and shoulders.

  Startled, I turned my head blindly, questing for the others, thinking Richard or the princess must have touched me.

  But all was still. There was no longer anyone beside me.

  My body rose, floating a moment, then turning on the air, oddly weightless. I kept my eyes shut, afraid to look down and break the spell. Wind lifted my hair and my cheeks grew chill. Suddenly I realized that I was no longer in the Lady Elizabeth’s candlelit chamber but flying through the night, voyaging the long darkness that lay between Hatfield House and the south.

  I opened my eyes. The rushing darkness made me dizzy, and when I glanced down, the height was simply terrifying. Fields and vast black trees, shimmering rivers and hills, even the looming bulk of houses flitted beneath me at lightning speed, faster and faster as I flew south, my mother’s spell rapidly and irresistibly closing in on the location of Master Robert Dudley.

  What if I should fall and kill myself?

  I almost laughed. This was no journey of the body. I could not tumble out of the sky like Icarus in the Greek myth, the boy’s wax-bound wings melting when he flew too near the sun. This was a spell, a magickal voyage of the mind. All that could happen was that I might be woken before I had completed the spell . . .

  I was not reassured by that thought. Last time I had felt queasy a
nd off-balance after Richard panicked and broke the spell after a few minutes. This time I might be gone for hours. What would happen if one of them brought me back too early?

  Suddenly my journey was over. Blackness descended and the night wind stilled. The air around me blurred, then I landed on my feet, standing in a torchlit passageway.

  This was the residence of some person of importance, I realized, glancing about at the expensive wood panelling and lavishly embroidered tapestries on the walls depicting Biblical scenes: Adam and Eve, the woman’s face cast down in disgrace as they were evicted from Paradise; Lot’s wife being turned into a pillar of salt; the beautiful Salome admiring the severed head of John the Baptist.

  Stairs led up into darkness; all was silent up there. But to my left a door stood partly open, and I could hear voices within.

  I frowned, finding one of the men’s voices oddly familiar. Surely I knew that man?

  At that moment, two servants emerged from the room, carrying empty platters in each hand, leaving the door closed.

  They were heading straight for me.

  I stiffened, my heart thumping, staring from one unsmiling face to the other, and mentally scrabbling for some reason for why I should be standing there, eavesdropping . . .

  But there was no need for explanations. The men walked through my body as though it were not there, and continued down the passageway, giving no indication that they had seen me.

  Like a ghost, I thought unsteadily.

  I studied my bare hands. To me, I looked – and felt – solid enough. But to them I must be invisible, just as before when I had spied unseen on my brother.

  Putting my hand to the door, I tried to push it open, but it would not budge. I had no substance there. Yet suddenly I was inside the room. I glanced back. The door was still closed. So I could pass through solid objects at will, I thought wonderingly, not just have them pass through me!

  There were four well-dressed people seated about the table, which had been set for a lavish meal, silver platters and wine goblets gleaming.

  ‘Come, sir, you and your wife must take more of this excellent Spanish wine,’ insisted the portly, red-cheeked gentleman at the head of the table. He snapped his fingers and a servant hurried forward with a brimming flagon. ‘I cannot stand to see my guests’ cups and plates empty. Especially not when you have come so far to eat at a humble churchman’s table.’

  I judged the man to be somewhat older than Kat Ashley, who was now past her fiftieth year, and very well-fed by the look of his paunch. He turned jovially to the woman on his left, who looked terrified at this attention. ‘Not hungry, mistress? The last course was a little rich, I agree. And all those raised pies and pastries give one terrible indigestion when consumed this late in the evening. Though the larks’ wings and venison in gravy were rather tasty . . .’ He rubbed his large hands together, smiling broadly. ‘But there is a syllabub coming, and I promise you it will be a triumph.’

  I moved forward, taking in the place to which I had been brought. The dining chamber was well-lit with candles, a large fire burning in the hearth and fresh rushes on the floor, the windows shuttered. I did not know the ‘humble churchman’ at the head of the table, dressed in the finest clerical robes and with a black velvet cap on his head, but the young man to his left was unmistakably Master Robert Dudley.

  I studied the young man’s profile with interest as he stretched out his goblet to the servant. Yes, the portrait had been a good likeness.

  Opposite him sat a woman who I assumed must be his wife. Amy was fair and not unhandsome, but seemed very meek, for she barely raised her head when the churchman addressed her.

  The fourth person was sitting with his back to me. But as I slipped round the table and saw who it was, I realized why one of the voices had seemed so familiar.

  It was John Dee, the Queen’s astrologer and a secret long-time supporter of her sister Elizabeth.

  ‘I shall take more wine too, if I may,’ Master Dee was saying meekly, raising his own goblet to have it refilled. ‘It is not bad, as Spanish wines go. But I do prefer a red Burgundy. So much smoother on the palate.’

  The churchman looked at him sharply. ‘It is unlikely we will enjoy much Burgundy at our tables this year, Master Dee. Not while His Majesty is waging war against the French. Unless your charts,’ and here he paused, an edge of contempt in his voice, ‘have revealed to you the outcome of this conflict? If so, you should share such information with the Queen at once.’

  ‘No, indeed, my lord,’ Dee replied uneasily, and I guessed that the man at the head of the table must be his master, the dreaded Bishop Bonner.

  I studied the bishop closely, feeling sick. One of the most feared men in England, he had recently committed the elderly Thomas Cranmer, once the Archbishop of Canterbury, to the bonfire in nearby Oxford. Having watched my own aunt die in the same way, I knew such cruelty could never be justified. Yet here he was, mopping up his gravy with a hunk of manchet bread, more intent on his dinner than on burning as many of his fellow men as he could.

  ‘This man,’ Robert Dudley announced with a determined laugh, ‘would have us think him an expert in wines. But indeed when I was a boy, and he was my tutor, I swear he barely touched a drop. Still a young man himself, he would drink nothing but the weakest ale or mead.’

  My mouth fell agape.

  John Dee had been tutor to the young Robert Dudley?

  I stared, bemused, at the astrologer; his eyes were shadowed with recent pain, yet his face still looked as handsome and unearthly as when we had first met, his hair long enough to fall down his back like a woman’s.

  I knew John Dee to be as learned as any university tutor, and wise too in the occult arts, a conjuror of dangerous spirits, a great magician, and a bold astrologer who had come near to losing his life over the royal charts he had dared to draw up. I simply could not imagine such a man as a humble tutor, even to rich and noble youths such as the Dudleys must have been before their family’s disgrace.

  What on earth had Dee taught Robert as a boy?

  Instantly I imagined a dark room of zodiac charts, star maps, large bottles of pickled newts, with forbidden books and heretical texts strewn open amid a mass of black candles . . . I shook the foolish vision away. He would have taught the Dudley boys Latin and Greek, some French and Italian too, mathematics and history, shown them a map of the globe, discussed politics, philosophy and the economics of nations. The same things Elizabeth had been taught as a girl, and which she often discussed with Alejandro.

  ‘And he was right to do so.’ Amy Dudley managed a smile for the bishop, but I thought she looked strained and unhappy. ‘Better a sober tutor than a drunken one. Is that not so?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ the bishop muttered, and pushed the sopping bread into his mouth.

  Dee managed a thin smile. ‘I often drank as a student at Oxford. I have not always been so . . . restrained.’

  ‘Oxford.’ Bishop Bonner looked directly at him, his heavy brows frowning. ‘Don’t mention the accursed place. I have seen enough of Oxford these past few months to last me a lifetime. Back and forth from London on Cranmer’s case. First old Archbishop Cranmer refuses to acknowledge the Queen’s authority over the Church, then he rejects the Mass itself. Next thing, when he sees his old friends roasting in the street for their stubbornness, he tries to recant and turn Catholic again.’ He shook his head, glancing at Mistress Dudley when she made a rough noise under her breath. ‘Forgive me. You have heard all this nonsense, no doubt?’

  Her cheeks suddenly white as snow, Amy Dudley gave the bishop the tiniest nod. ‘Something . . .’ she whispered.

  ‘Well, Her Majesty could see the truth of the matter and she would have none of it. I mean, the law states that if a man recants, he should not burn. We all know that. But a lie uttered in fear is never a true recanting. Besides, old Cranmer had it coming, and I for one do not mourn his death.’ Bonner drank deep from his goblet, then belched loudly. ‘Nor the manner of it
. He will face hotter flames in Hell, will he not?’

  The room fell silent, but the bishop did not seem to notice, clicking his jewelled fingers for the servant to fill his cup again.

  Robert Dudley turned to his former tutor, clearing his throat. ‘I am glad to have a chance to talk with you again, sir. It was kind of Bishop Bonner to extend an invitation for us to dine here tonight.’

  ‘His lordship is a very generous man,’ John Dee agreed, smiling awkwardly at the bishop.

  ‘Tell me, what news of the Queen? You must have been at court more frequently than I these past few months, for I fear Her Majesty has not forgotten my family’s wrongful support of the rebellion.’

  The court astrologer steepled his fingers together under his chin, regarding his former pupil. ‘Her Majesty has been unwell in recent months. She suffered much under the influence of Saturn last year. But Venus is on the rise. Her health will soon be restored.’

  Dudley’s smile looked forced. ‘That is excellent news and I rejoice in it.’ He raised his goblet. ‘Long live Her Majesty Queen Mary!’

  His wife drank too, nervously. ‘Long live Her Majesty!’

  Someone knocked at the door, then entered swiftly. A man came to the table and presented a note to the bishop on a silver platter. Bonner wiped his mouth and fingers on his napkin, then unrolled the message, frowning as he read it.

  ‘Nothing wrong, I trust?’ Dee asked solicitously.

  The bishop grunted, pushing back his chair. ‘A letter that requires my personal seal. Another of these cowardly heretics who believes he can avoid the fire by swearing he has changed his mind at the eleventh hour. But he will burn tomorrow if his recantation is a false one.’ His smile made me feel sick. ‘And I can always tell the false ones. They are the men and women who make the most noise when they first see their burning-place.’ He threw down his napkin and strode to the door. ‘Enjoy your syllabub when it arrives. I must compose a reply to the prison warden. I shall soon return.’