De Pero smiled knowingly. ‘Of course.’ He finished his wine with an expression of mild distaste. ‘No need to show me out. I will send word when I am ready to receive your first report. Though duty calls me to leave London soon, alas, and I may not return for several weeks.’ His cold smile made my heart leap in fear. ‘You are not the only man who keeps a witch too close for his own good.’
What had he meant by that?
The Spaniard passed through my body, opening the door, and headed for the stairs with his slow, chilling step.
Marcus bent his head and swore under his breath. Then he picked up a candle and trod heavily out through puddled water into the darkness of the main cellar. With me following, the witchfinder pushed past filthy curtains of gauze to where a pale female figure could just be seen in the candlelight, both arms raised as though chained to the wall.
Cecilie.
My stomach heaved in horror at how the young woman was being kept, tied up like a dog in the black stench-pit of this cellar.
‘Now, my dear,’ Marcus began silkily, and dropped the last gauze curtain, masking my view of his prisoner, ‘since you are awake again, I’ll remove the gag and you can resume telling me about Meg Lytton and her priest. And don’t lie this time. I always know when you’re lying.’
I pressed up against the gauze, desperate to see Cecilie for myself, to know for certain that she was alive, that Marcus had not hurt her too cruelly.
But at that moment the world tilted and rolled beneath me with a familiar sickening sensation. I screamed a silent, ‘No!’ but my mute ghost was sucked from that dark house in London even as I protested, flailing and clawing at the air.
Then I was flying, tears in my eyes, having seen nothing but a haggard face raised towards her captor, gagged and marked with bruises, and a pair of tortured brown eyes.
When my senses finally returned, Richard was kneeling with my head in his lap, his frown concerned. ‘Meg, you little wretch. You’ve been gone nearly two hours.’
‘William, look, she’s awake.’ Alice was kneeling on my other side, her cheeks flushed, her chestnut curls dishevelled, no cap in sight.
When had she arrived?
I stared up dizzily at William behind her, my brother peering over her head, his expression equally anxious.
‘Quick, William, pass me that wine.’
Then I noticed Alejandro standing by the door – looking furious, of course. I guessed that was because I had been gone so long. And was Elizabeth herself in the room? I caught a hint of perfume, then the swish of heavy silk skirts.
Good heavens, who else knew of our magickal business?
‘I know where Dent is holding Cecilie,’ I croaked, my head spinning worse than ever before. I accepted a sip of wine from the cup Alice held to my lips. ‘But it’s not going to be easy.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Torturer
It was only a short while, yet somehow spring slipped into summer while we argued and planned how to rescue Cecilie from Marcus Dent. It only seemed like yesterday that we had celebrated the spring equinox, which was also the anniversary of my birth. Like most people, I had not marked my birthday in any special way, but noted its passing with interest. It was odd to think that I was now seventeen years of age, when I had once feared that I would not even reach sixteen. Would this next year see my death?
A night ride to London seemed wisest. But we had to wait for a full moon, for the roads would be lighter under a summer moon and we could travel more safely.
Richard sided with me on this. ‘It does make sense to wait for the next full moon before riding to London,’ he agreed, gathering herbs in the sunlit garden at Hatfield, though I could tell he was itching to be on the move. He seemed intent on revenge after the way Dent had brushed him aside, his pride hurt by his failure that day. ‘I only wish it could come sooner.’
Alejandro wanted me to stay behind at Hatfield, of course. He had agreed that Cecilie must be rescued from Marcus at the earliest possible opportunity, but did not want me involved in this business.
‘Why must you always be so hot-headed?’ Alejandro demanded, leaning against the tall yew hedge that surrounded the formal gardens. ‘You will get yourself killed in this madness.’
‘Or save everyone else from death,’ I exclaimed, rounding on him. ‘I am hardly helpless against the witchfinder, Alejandro. You know my power.’
His eyes clashed with mine, then he walked away. ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘I know it.’
I watched him pace the sandy path in silence, his arms folded tightly, tension in every line of his body. My power would always be the thing between us, I thought sadly. The sword in the bed. It was too much for him. And he knew I would never give it up. Not for a man, anyway.
Will, sitting hand in hand with Alice on the wall as they listened to our conversation, jumped into this awkward moment. ‘Alejandro is right to be concerned. It is madness for us to be charging into Dent’s house and trying to get that witch out.’
‘Cecilie. She has a name.’
My brother looked at me sternly. ‘I am sorry for her, Meg, truly I am. But I have no wish to die for a woman I have never even met.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Richard said drily, inhaling a fragrant handful of sweet marjoram.
‘But we can’t just leave the girl there to die, William,’ Alice exclaimed, frowning at him. ‘What if it was me?’
William shrugged, looking sideways at Alice, but I knew he would not refuse to come. He liked to bluster, and would often dig his heels in when he felt cornered, but he had a generous heart. I saw the way he and Alice were looking at each other, the message that passed silently between them, and could not help wondering how far things had gone there.
William might be good at heart, but he needed someone forthright like Alice to nudge him in the right direction and not let him wriggle out of his promises. That was something a woman would never need to worry about with Alejandro. His promises might be written in snow, carved on water, even blown away on the wind, yet he would keep them as solidly as though they had been etched in stone.
He would not be making any more promises to me though, I thought wretchedly. And that was a good thing, for Gilly Goodwife may have been able to live a married life with a blacksmith and still practise her craft, but I knew that if I married Alejandro – a nobleman from the country of the Inquisition – I would have to give up my power. And I had no wish to do that.
‘Meg?’
I turned at the call to see Blanche in the doorway to the house, beckoning me inside.
‘Forgive me,’ I murmured to the others, and hurried away across the grass, secretly relieved at the interruption.
Blanche was waiting for me in the cool, shady entrance. Since I had stopped wearing the Invictus ring, the place seemed less threatening. Hatfield House was almost pleasant now with summer upon us, always the scent of flowers drifting through the corridors and a harmonious drone of bees from the leaded windows that overlooked the garden.
‘Her ladyship wishes to see you alone,’ Blanche said, her lips pursed disapprovingly. ‘Go up at once, she is waiting for you.’
I climbed the stairs to Elizabeth’s chamber and found her by the window, staring out across the swaying treetops as though still a prisoner, as she had been when we first met at Woodstock Palace.
I paused on the threshold, my heart aching for her. This past year could not have been easy for Elizabeth, still living in fear of arrest – for everyone knew her acceptance of the Catholic faith was no more real than Archbishop Cranmer’s had been, and he had been burned for heresy – yet aware that at any moment a horseman might arrive and proclaim her Queen of England.
The princess turned, seeing me. ‘Meg, come in and close the door. I do not wish to be overheard.’
There was a strange light in her face, and she was clutching the miniature portrait of Robert Dudley to her chest.
‘When Mistress Goodwife was here, she offered to read my future,’ she said softly, ‘and
I refused. The last time you scried for me, Meg, we misread the signs, and I thought it best not to meddle with the unknown again. But I have changed my mind.’
‘You wish me to tell the future for you, my lady?’
‘Can you?’
I nodded. ‘I can try. There are a few things I need though. In my chamber.’
‘Fetch them,’ Elizabeth said abruptly. ‘And hurry. It must be done now, I feel. There is a great urgency in my heart.’
I fetched what was required and cast the circle around us, all the time trying to calm my thudding heart. To tell the future of royalty was both dangerous and exciting. But I wanted to test my skill. And Gilly Goodwife had warned me not to squander my talent on petty spells. This was an opportunity to prove myself not only to the princess but also to myself.
Within the protection of the circle, the princess sank to her knees in a billow of green silk. The shutters had been closed and the door bolted against intruders. At my nod, the Lady Elizabeth kindled the black candle and spoke a few words in Latin over the flame. I turned to prepare the spell, suddenly light-headed, already half in a trance.
‘What’s that?’ Elizabeth gasped when I unwrapped the mandragora root. ‘A homunculus?’ She meant a tiny man.
‘No, it is a mandrake root. Also called a mandragora. It belonged to my mother, and now is mine. Very dangerous, my lady, and to be handled with extreme care.’ Respectfully I bowed my head to the dark cloven root, then placed it before me in the circle. My voice sank to a whisper. ‘Powerful, especially when used in divination.’
Though indeed the mandrake root did resemble a shrivelled old man, I thought, having two legs where it was cloven and strange bulging knots for eyes and a mouth. It was a mystery of the Orient how these roots grew, and I had no wish to delve too deeply into how my mother had procured one, but under Richard’s guidance I had lightly washed and dried the root, then wrapped it in a swathe of coarse black silk, keeping it concealed in my mother’s chest.
Last time I had scried for the princess, I had used a black mirror. I no longer possessed one, for it had become cracked and useless for divination, so intended to use the mandragora instead, asking the man-root questions and letting it whisper the answers to me.
Gilly Goodwife had inspected the contents of my mother’s chest before leaving Hatfield, and told me many useful things about how each item could be used in spell work, including the mandrake root. I only wished she could have stayed longer. But the witch had clearly felt uncomfortable at Hatfield, perhaps because of the silent disapproval of the princess and her ladies – and their very real fears. One witch was the limit in Elizabeth’s household. She had no wish to draw further attention to herself by allowing another to stay.
‘What do you wish to know, my lady?’
‘Will I ever marry?’ she asked first, then frowned. ‘Will I rule England? And who will rule with me? I must know these things.’
I bent over the mandrake root and breathed in the smoke from the black candle, letting it fill my senses. Chanting softly beneath my breath, I closed my eyes and touched my forehead to the root, as Gilly had described.
‘Mandragora Man, Mandragora Man,’ I whispered, ‘spirit of darkness, sacred man of the soil, hear me, I beg you. By the red wine in which I bathed you, and the good earth in which you were nurtured, give me your wisdom. Will the Lady Elizabeth rule England?’
I waited, listening. The moments dragged by and I heard the princess draw in a harsh breath beside me, rocking to and fro, impatient to know her fate.
Then I heard the tiniest voice, like the breeze stirring a harp. ‘Yes . . .’
I stared up at the princess, my heart thumping. ‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘Yes, you will rule.’
She put a hand to her mouth, shuddering. ‘And my husband? Ask him that too. Who will be my husband?’
I lowered my head back to the cloven mandrake, feeling a definite shock run through me as skin met root. My whole body was trembling now as the magick took hold of me, filling the room with strange power.
‘Mandragora Man, Mandragora Man,’ I whispered again, ‘sacred spirit of the earth, what man will be the Lady Elizabeth’s husband?’
The wait was awful this time. My neck was aching, my eyes itching and streaming as though I had touched onion to them.
After a long space, the root replied hoarsely, ‘No man.’
I jerked my head away, meeting the princess’s wide gaze. ‘No man, he said. No man.’
‘Does that mean I will never marry? Is that what the spirit is saying? Or that I will die before I can marry?’ Her face was hard. ‘You must ask again, Meg. Say the answer was not clear, that we need him to tell us more plainly.’
I swallowed, my fingernails pressing deep into my palms, for I was frightened, though I did not understand why. But this was dark magick, easily more powerful than anything Marcus Dent could have thrown at me, coming directly out of the spirit world. And spirits, as I knew, were very tricky to control.
‘I do not know what it means, my lady, but we may not ask the same question twice, it is not permitted by the spirits.’ I was almost hissing at her, I realized too late, desperate for it to be over. My forehead was burning where it had touched the mandrake root, and I could feel a strange dark presence in the room with us. I sensed that the mandragora root was growing restless, unwilling to be questioned any further.
‘But you must ask again,’ she insisted.
‘His answer was, no man. That is all I can tell you, my lady.’
The candle suddenly flickered and went out. We knelt in silence, both frozen and listening. First a hiss came from the mandragora root, then a low rumble rolled threateningly about in the darkness like thunder.
Elizabeth gave a sharp cry and stumbled to her feet. ‘I will not be frightened by that . . . thing.’
‘No, my lady,’ I warned her, but it was too late. She had run to the window in her panic and throw open the shutters on glorious sunshine, instantly breaking the spell.
Dazzled by the flood of light, I fumbled for the black silk and threw it over the exposed mandragora man. Thanking him in a hurried whisper, I wrapped him up again, protecting his withered root against the sunlight.
Elizabeth was trembling, standing against the window, her face white as she looked back at me. ‘What did it mean, Meg?’
‘I am not sure.’
‘Never to be married!’ She bit her lip so hard I saw blood beading there, then she gasped, ‘Because the man I love is already married? Or because no man . . . no man will have me?’ Her eyes grew horribly wide. ‘Will I become sick? Disfigured, perhaps?’
She put her hands to her cheeks, staring at me in sudden bewildered consternation, and I did not know how to answer her.
Then she shook her head, struggling to slow her breathing. ‘No, no, that is a foolish thought. Once I am Queen of England, dozens of princes will come to offer me marriage, even if I am hunchbacked and at death’s door. The question remains, is it marriage that I want, or only the thing that prompts it?’
She let her arms fall back to her sides, her emotions under control again. ‘Tell me, Meg,’ she asked softly, ‘what would you choose in my place? Freedom or marriage? To rule or be ruled?’
‘What would a man’s answer be, my lady?’
‘Ah, very good.’
I wanted to comfort her. ‘Perhaps the divination was incorrect.’
‘Or you misheard the spirit.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Or perhaps heard nothing at all, and told a lie to cover your own failure.’
My temper flared at that unjust accusation, but I gritted my teeth. Would she have spoken like this to John Dee if the famous astrologer had drawn up a chart and told her she would never marry? I doubted it, I thought savagely. But then I was a woman and this was women’s magick. Not the scientific findings of an educated man.
‘My lady, I promise you that is not true. I repeated the whisperings of the mandragora root exactly as I heard them. I have no wish to distress you.’
‘Well, all this is superstitious nonsense. I may marry one day, I may not. To own the truth, I am in no hurry to choose a husband – there is still plenty of time.’ Crossing to the table, she took up the miniature portrait of Robert Dudley and stared at it broodingly. ‘Go, leave me alone,’ she insisted, her face in shadow. ‘And burn that dreadful thing. It is an abomination.’
I hurried away, my senses still raw and prickling from the brutal way the spell had ended, and found Richard skulking in the corridor, a knowing smile on his face.
‘So the princess did not warm to the answers you gave her? No surprise there. It can be a double-edged sword, divination.’ Richard caught my arm as I tried to pass him without replying. ‘Don’t burn it, Meg.’
‘I am not a fool,’ I replied, and shook my arm loose. ‘Besides, her temper will soon cool. She is only angry because she hoped to hear the name Robert Dudley.’
The weather the next day was fine again, a rising mist just after dawn, then a delicious balmy heat that made it hard to force myself into my heavy-skirted gown and woollen stockings. Since we had agreed to make no push to rescue Cecilie until the next full moon, after the ritual of prayers followed by breakfast we wandered out into the gardens instead, Alejandro playing the lute for us while I read my mother’s grimoire out of sight of the hall windows and William played chess with Alice. Richard hovered about on the edge of this hive of activity, ostensibly looking for insects to use as fish bait down in the pond, though several times I caught him looking at me with some dark intent in his eyes.
We were all as bad as each other, I thought achingly: Alejandro unable to let go of his love for me, me unable to make a clean break with him, and Richard following us silently about, burning inside for what he could never have.
Though in truth, I had found myself growing closer to the conjuror’s apprentice this summer. Richard, at least, had no problem with who I was. And blunt straightforwardness was fast becoming a quality I prized.
Suddenly Richard gave a warning shout, pointing away to the road south. We all turned to look, and my heart stuttered at the sight of a dust cloud just visible above the treeline. As the dust cloud grew closer the sound of horses could be heard too, undoubtedly heading our way.
Witchrise Page 19