Inside all was gloom after the bright sunshine of the day, and it took awhile for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw a long row of stalls, each separated with paneled wooden divides bearing fine wrought-iron fitments. Along the front of these ran a high rack for hay and a deep stone manger for feed. The floor was cobbles, swept spotlessly clean. Only three of the stalls were occupied by horses. One was a somewhat plain riding horse, another a passable carriage horse, and the last was a workaday brown mare who might more ordinarily be found on a farm. A sign of the times, I thought, recalling the fine carriage horses and riding thoroughbreds that William and his family used to keep. Keanes moved with surprising speed on his crooked legs. He had already walked the length of the stalls and beckoned me to follow him through a wide door. This, I discovered, led into the tack room, where all the gleaming bridles, saddles, and carriage harnesses were stored. I inhaled the smell of clean leather, dubbin, and polish. Everything was hung neatly on racks or stored on slatted shelves, high enough to deter mice and rats, low enough to be lifted down with relative ease. The war might have diminished the lives of so many in so many different ways, but evidently there were still standards to be upheld.
Keanes opened a large wooden trunk which housed tightly rolled tail bandages and folded rugs for the horses. He delved beneath the layers of wool and jute and pulled out a small cotton bag, its top tied tight with a drawstring. He straightened up, his arthritic joints creaking as he did so. After a few more seconds of hesitation he thrust the small bag at me.
“’Ere. Take it,”he said gruffly.
For an instant his gnarled hand grazed mine as I accepted the bag from him, and I experienced a curiously charged sensation, almost as if I had received a small electric shock. There was magic of some sort in this man. Perhaps that was why he had not given me away. I undid the string and tipped the contents of the pouch into my hand. Something the size and shape of a pebble landed warm against my palm. It was lighter than a stone, its substance not as hard. I turned it over, examining it carefully, aware of a deepening heat where it touched my skin. There appeared to be nothing about it that could generate warmth, and yet it was increasingly hot, so that soon I had to tip it from one hand to the other to avoid being burned.
Keanes chuckled at my discomfort. “You feel its heat! Aye, you would do. Not everyone does, but you would do. Do not fight it so, mistress. It won’t ’arm you none. Mibben it will aid thee.” His language began to slip into that which my family used, at least when not in the presence of their betters, or when not required to be formal. Suddenly I felt the air rushing against my face. It stirred my hair, tugging tendrils from beneath my cotton cap. I looked about me, but there was no door opened, and nothing else in the tack room was disturbed. Keanes watched me, amused at my bewilderment. At last he asked, “’Ave you not seen foal’s bread afore, mistress? One such as thee should know of such things.”
Of course! Now I knew what it was I held in my hand, and it was something of great rarity and value. I had never seen one before, but I had heard of them. My mother had told me of the strong medicine, in truth, of the magic, contained within these seemingly plain and drab little lumps. Foal’s bread, or hippomanes, their more scientific name, are smooth, roundish shapes found on the outside of the placenta in which a baby horse develops. Scientists and veterinary professionals will tell you they are no more than accumulated deposits of allantoic fluids and mineral. Wise folk, those who know horses and who know magic, they will tell you something different. These insignificant-looking lumps are tiny storehouses of powerful magic. Their potency is such that they change hands for more than their weight in gold in some cultures. Many shamans and spellcasters around the world count them as a vital part of their magic armory. And their most important quality is that they cannot be used to do harm, for their sole purpose is to offer protection. Protection against illness. Protection against magic. Protection against evil.
“Keanes, I could not possibly take this from you. It is too precious.”
He waved my protest away. “You ’ave need of it, Mistress Hawksmith. Mibben thee’ll give it back to me someday.”
His use of my real name took me by surprise to such an extent that I was lost for an answer. He gave me no time to argue further, nor to comment on who he thought I was, but turned and vanished back into the cool dusk of the stalls. I put the foal’s bread back into its bag, tied it tightly, and then secured it by its string to my petticoats beneath my skirts. This was not something I would risk losing. I was honored to have been entrusted with it, and deeply grateful for the degree of protection I knew it could offer me.
11
As I crossed the yard to the house, William appeared at the door and hurried out to greet me.
“I spied you from the window. I was surprised to see you coming from the direction of the stables.”
“Did you think I would have forgotten the shortcut between our homes?”
We went inside and in the hallway we found Richard, William’s manservant. I recalled meeting the youth in the garden and once again was struck by his sorrowful countenance. Given what William had told me about his family, he could be forgiven for wearing such a perpetually glum expression. He greeted me cordially and with his practiced bow.
“Shall I send to the kitchen for some refreshments, Sir William?” he asked.
“Please do not do so on my account,” I put in.
“As you wish,” said William. “Let us sit awhile in the morning room. It has become my refuge of late. Richard, I will call if I need you.”
He led me to a comfortable room to the left of the grand reception room ordinarily used for receiving guests. I recalled the last time I had been in the house. It was the time I came and begged William to help save my mother. He had received me in a much more formal reception room, where I had been compelled to plead my case in front of his new fiancée. I believe he would have assisted me if he felt it were within his power to do so, but he did not. He had not dared stand against the authorities. The only help he had been able to give me was money, which I used to bribe the jailer so that I might spend a few final, precious moments with my dear mother.
The memory was no doubt sharp in William’s mind, too. As he offered me a high-backed chair beside the unlit fire he said, “I scarcely use the greater part of the house. I have no need for grand rooms, nor so many of them. There is only me. In truth I wonder why I stay here, but then, one has to be somewhere.”
“It would be hard to give up your family home.”
“What keeps me here are living people, Bess, not ghosts. The servants and their families—Keanes, Picton the gardener, my housekeeper Mary-Anne, and Tillie the kitchen servant. And Richard, of course. If I left, if I shut up Batchcombe Hall and went away, what would they do? Where would they live? I have a responsibility to them.” He paused, running a hand through his light brown hair, and then added, “Besides which, I would miss them. They are my family now.”
“You are fond of the boy, I think?”
“Is it that plain to see?” His voice cracked as he spoke. “Richard was near starving when I found him and brought him here. That was two years ago. He is a little rough hewn, and impetuous. Anger drove his survival and he is angry still. But he is quick to learn, and has become a … comforting presence.”
“I’m glad. For both of you. You have both lost so many…”
He searched my face. “You never married, Bess? Never had children of your own? Forgive me for asking, I should not have let my curiosity override good manners.”
I shook my head. “We are old friends, you and I. It is natural you should wish to know. You are right in thinking I did not marry,” I told him, “but the girl I am here for, well, she is the closest to a daughter I have ever had, or will ever have.”
“Then I understand why you took the risk of returning to Batchcombe. For it is a great risk, Bess.”
“But a worthwhile one. I have found her. Tegan is being held in the town, at a merchan
t’s house a little way from the high street.”
“But this is excellent news!” He sprang to his feet. “Let us collect her at once. I will have Keanes bring the carriage.”
“It is not such a simple task.”
“You fear that loathsome creature, Masters, will stand in your way? Concern yourself no further on that score, Bess. I will have the magistrate deal with him if necessary.”
“And what will you say to the good magistrate? That a condemned witch who slipped free of her noose all those years ago has returned to the town and wishes him to assist her in removing the niece of a respectable merchant from his home?”
“Niece? You did not say … and Gideon Masters is by no measure respectable! I do not understand.”
“There is a great deal you cannot be expected to understand, not until I have explained it to you. Please, William, sit. There is much I must tell you, and most of it will sound like madness to your ears.”
So we sat and, slowly and carefully, with many interruptions and questions from William, I told him as much as was necessary for him to know, and no more. I told him how Gideon had schooled me in magic, and how I had used that magic to free myself from the town jail and escape my captors. I told him how I had turned away from Gideon then, and that by rejecting him I had made a dangerous lifelong enemy. I did not tell him how long that life, thus far, had been. It was sufficient that he be faced with the reality of my witchcraft; I would not ask his mind or his affection for me to stretch to even greater, unfeasible lengths.
For a while, after I had finished my story, William sat silent. The day was drawing on, the sun dropping in the sky, and the light in the room softened. He had his back to the tall windows, so that it was hard for me to see his expression clearly now. I could only guess at how he was struggling to make sense of what I had told him. I knew he would want to. I knew also that it would frighten him to believe I truly was a witch. To face that fact head-on. To acknowledge the most feared thing, and accept the truth of it when all he knew of witchery was that it was evil and ungodly and dangerous. What did that make the friend that sat before him? What did that make him if he helped me? He held his hands in this lap, fingers interlocking, but still, I noticed, they trembled. He stared at them as he spoke, as if unwilling to meet my eye.
“When you came to me for help, Bess … when you asked me to do something to free your mother, I could not, no … I did not act. I said then that there was nothing I was able to bring about that would make any difference to the outcome. I recall saying there was no help I could give. I’ve thought about that a great deal over the years, for I believe if I had helped you … if I had somehow effected your mother’s release, well, you both might have been saved. The truth is, Bess, I was full of fear. I feared that if I were seen to be supporting your mother’s cause, speaking up for a convicted witch … that I would be colored in that same light. I was afraid for my family, for my new fiancée, for myself.” He raised his gaze then, looking at me directly, and I saw that there were tears in his eyes. “I confess I do not know which thing has tormented me more over the years; my own cowardice, or the fact that through it I lost you.”
“William, do not berate yourself so. You were right; there was nothing you could have done to save my mother.”
“I could have tried! I could have done more than pass the responsibility, the blame, to my father. I could have stood up to the injustice of hanging a good woman, a loving mother, a caring healer who had helped so many people … but I did not, and I will regret it until I draw my last breath.”
“But you do realize, don’t you, that she was not wrongly accused? She was a witch, William. Just as I am.”
“Then if what a witch is sits before me, a woman I have loved all my life, I see no evil, no harm, no wickedness.” He drew a deep breath and straightened up. “You have my loyalty and my support, Bess. What is it you would have me do?”
I quickly outlined the plan Erasmus and I had made. I would send a note to Gideon arranging to meet him at Batchcombe Point at sunset. I would write that I wanted to hear to what terms he would agree for Tegan’s freedom. While she kept him away from the house, William and Erasmus would go to Batchcombe and get Tegan and bring her to the Hall for safekeeping.
“She will not come willingly,” Elizabeth warned him. “And there are two young women watching over her. They will not easily give her up.”
“We will have Keanes with us. And Richard. I believe four men can overpower two women if needs be.”
“I cannot bear to think of Tegan’s distress at being forced. She will not understand it is for her own good. I will concoct a potion for you to give her. Something calming that will make it easier for everyone.” I got up from my chair. “I must write the letter first.”
“I will have Richard ride to town with it.”
“Please send Cook into the garden for lavender and chamomile. I will need to disturb her kitchen for a while.”
William took me to a writing table and gave me quill, ink, and paper.
“I shall go and instruct Keanes to bring round the covered carriage at seven o’clock. We can collect Erasmus on our way to town.” He hesitated and then said, “I know he is not your brother, Bess. It is not my business, of course, but is he…?”
“No. He is a friend, that is all. He is another who has agreed to help me.”
William nodded, satisfied with my answer. I was relieved he did not press me on the subject further. As he made for the door I called after him.
“I cannot come with you, William. I will have to keep my rendezvous with Gideon.”
He looked shocked. “But, there is no need, surely! By the time he realizes you are not coming we will have rescued the girl…”
“You underestimate our enemy. He has magic at his fingertips that you could not imagine. He will sense my presence. He will likely sense there is some sort of trap or trick being played. I cannot risk him deciding against going to the meeting point.”
“If he suspects treachery, why would he go at all?”
“His weakness is his arrogance. He will wish to play the game, certain he cannot lose.”
“It will be dangerous for you, Bess. Why choose such a lonely place, so far from help?”
“He must be well away from the house and the route back here. Don’t worry, William. I know the shoreline and the cliff tops near my old home better than anyone. I will be able to leave when I want to.” I did not add that there was one talent I possessed that Gideon did not, for it might have been too much for William to comprehend, to imagine his childhood sweetheart stepping off the cliff top and taking flight.
* * *
The letter written and dispatched, I hurried to the kitchen. The housekeeper, Mary-Anne was stick thin and with a pinched face, and was another servant who had been with the family all her working life. She viewed the kitchen as her domain, and I had no wish to incur her displeasure. She greeted me as cordially as she must, given her master bade her grant me any assistance I wished, but it was an uneasy cooperation. Like Keanes, it was more than likely that she would recognize me. Unlike Keanes, in her I detected no sympathy for the magical. Indeed, if she suspected what I was making was anything more than a calming infusion she would, in all probability, lose the restraint her loyalty to William demanded and start screaming “Witch!” My trial had been brief and long ago, and, as many were at that time. I had no choice but to rest upon the hope that her memory of the charges against me was hazy, given her advanced years, and that the here and now were where her attention must be focused in order for her to manage her position in the house.
“Fetch Mistress Carmichael a pot, girl,” she instructed Tillie, the kitchen maid. “No, not that one! Would you have our visitor think us down at heel? Here”—she snatched a fine enamel pan from the hook above her head—“This shall serve, I trust.”
She handed it to me unsteadily, the direction of her aim a little askew from where I stood, and with relief I realized that her eyesight
was pitifully poor. The maid was in her teens, which meant neither of them would be able to identify me. I found myself able to relax into my task.
I chopped the woody lavender and the leafy chamomile, flowers as well as leaves, and then ground them finely using a pestle and mortar. If felt strangely good to be working with the old, simple tools and methods again. The very same ones my mother had taught me. Soon the kitchen was filled with the heady perfume of the lavender and the lemony scent of chamomile. I tipped the herbs into the cooking pot and covered them with freshly drawn water. I placed the pan on the stove and stirred slowly. I was keenly aware of my audience, and kept my voice to a whisper as I recited the words that would charge the aromatic mixture with a spell.
“Flowers of forest and garden, grown with love and tended with care, answer the wishes of one of your own. A hedge witch needs your soothing power. Work your gentle magic. May the fumes of your flowers and the steam of your stalks find their way to the one who needs you. Soothe the one who breathes in your precious vapors. Calm her with your ancient oils. Send her slumber, short but sweet and filled with pleasant dreams. A hedge witch asks you. A hedge witch bids you. A hedge witch stirs your magic thrice deosil, thrice widdershins. Blessed be. Blessed be.”
A hush had descended. The two figures behind me stood stock-still. I put the lid on the pan and removed the concoction from the heat. Turning with a bright smile, I asked, “Have you a small jar or bottle with a tight stopper?”
The Return of the Witch Page 12