The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)

by Amanda Hughes

  Rhun started. “I know this name. Is your mother, Valeria De la Rosa?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father, Aled Llewellyn?”

  “Yes,” Dante said with his eyes closed. “Father dead, mother burned at stake.”

  Rhun nodded. “Remove his chains. I know this man.”

  * * *

  It took weeks for Dante to regain his strength. He stayed in Cedric’s home and Filomena Charles, the ovate, came daily to care for him. “That man!” she exclaimed one morning, stomping into the weaving room.

  Circe looked up from her loom. “What is it, Mistress Charles?”

  The tiny ovate rolled her sleeves down impatiently. “He questions my every move.”

  “He pretends to know healing?”

  “Oh, he pretends not. He has knowledge, but he is insufferably dictatorial, telling me how to mix my elixirs and administer my treatments.”

  “Is he an ovate as well?”

  “No, an apothecary.”

  Circe didn’t know what to say. She had never seen Mistress Charles so angry. “Have you spoken with the Arch Derwydd?”

  “I have and I told him that this Spaniard needs no further assistance from me.”

  “He is back to full health?”

  “He is back to full health if he can criticize my every move.”

  She started for the door. The apprentices watched nervously as she breezed past them. With her hand on the latch, she declared, “Why on earth was this man summoned to us? I certainly hope the Goddess reveals her purpose soon, so that he can be on his way.”

  When she left, Circe stared at the door, stunned. This Spaniard must be exasperating indeed.

  * * *

  “Tell me what you know of this man before you go in to see him,” Cedric said when Rhun came to check on Dante.

  “Very well,” he replied, removing his cloak and hanging it on a peg.

  They sat down in front of the fire in the main room. Cedric’s dwelling was decorated with fine furnishings. He had a finely crafted hutch from Holyhead, an ornately carved trestle table, and silver candlesticks - testimony to the wealth his family had accrued in Wales.

  Rhun took a deep breath and began. “This Spaniard’s father, Aled Llewellyn, is from Llanmaes−my hometown. He came from a family of Derwydds.”

  “I seem to recognize the name.”

  “It is quite likely you do. Llewellyn was a prosperous merchant who sailed the world. He cataloged secret Celtic communities while on his voyages.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe I met him once in Holyhead. A handsome man, as I recall.”

  “Indeed, he was. He had many women but was purported to love only one, Dante’s mother, Valeria De la Rosa of Granada, Spain. She was a beautiful woman, part Moor and part Spaniard. She was one of the most brilliant ovates in all of Europe.”

  “But the son bears his mother’s name. They did not marry?”

  Rhun shook his head. “They did not. Valeria refused. The story was she had time only for healing, not a husband. But they continued as lovers for years.”

  “How ever did she survive as an ovate in Catholic Spain?”

  “Llewellyn greased many palms, especially in the clergy, to keep Valeria out of the clutches of the Inquisition. But when he died, the money stopped, and---”

  “They burned her at the stake. Obviously, her son escaped,” Cedric said, looking toward the bedchamber. “But how did he end up a slave?”

  “I have no idea. Is he well enough to speak?”

  “He is. He has been badgering and arguing with Filomena all day.”

  They stepped into the bedchamber. It was a sparsely decorated room with a braided rug on the floor, a cherry wood chest, and one straight-backed chair. Heavy rose colored drapes hung on the bedstead. The room smelled of herbs, and a basin of lavender water was sitting on a washstand.

  Dante sat up when they walked in the bedchamber. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his long, dark hair.

  Rhun could see the man now that the filth was gone. Dante De la Rosa was around thirty years of age with fine features: a dark, Moorish complexion and a proud face. It was clear that he had not led a pampered existence. Scars along the jaw and forehead spoke of street fights and a struggle for survival. He sported a mustache with a small cavalier beard and had straight white teeth.

  “Are you worn out from berating Mistress Charles?” Cedric asked with an eyebrow raised.

  “I was merely trying to improve her skills,” Del la Rosa replied in his Spanish accent.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Cedric said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Do you remember, Mr. Swinburne?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you fare?” Rhun asked. “You look stronger.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  “I have a few questions for you,” he said, sitting down by the bed. “I know about your upbringing in Granada. Your mother was an ovate, while your father was a merchant. He was from my hometown in Wales. What I’m wondering is this: how did you become enslaved?”

  “I--” De la Rosa winced. He had turned too abruptly. His shoulder had been broken as well as some ribs. Clenching his jaw, he turned more slowly and said, “I had too, much to drink one night and pirates kidnapped me from a tavern in Santo Domingo. After keeping me in irons for weeks, they brought me to the English Colonies along with the others.”

  “You were living in The Indies?”

  “Yes, I fled Spain after my mother was killed. I am an apothecary and earned a living by selling my formulas and medicines in Santo Domingo.”

  “I have heard those islands are teeming with cutthroats,” Cedric said. “Why did the pirates bring you to Ipswich? Why not a larger town like Boston?”

  “They tried Boston, but the officials knew they were freebooters and would not let them in. So, they worked their way up the coast.”

  “And now you are here,” Rhun said.

  “Now I am here. Not that I want to be.”

  “You did not summon us through the girl?” Cedric asked with surprise.

  “No, why would I want to come here?”

  “Think,” Rhun said. “What does the Goddess want of you?”

  “Oh, yes, the Goddess,” Dante said with a smirk. “I must be back among the Derwydds. If it’s not the Derwydds and their Goddess, it’s the Puritans and their God. No, I cannot think of why I am here.”

  Rhun and Cedric exchanged looks.

  “I have heard you are a most difficult man, Mr. De la Rosa,” Rhun said. “These rumors appear to be true.”

  Dante looked from Rhun to Cedric and back again, sighing. “The only possibility is--” He scanned the bedchamber, looking at the empty pegs on the wall, and ran his eyes over the floor. “My clothes. Where are my clothes?”

  “The garments in which you arrived?” Cedric asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Well, I imagine Mistress Charles took them to burn them.”

  “No!” Dante roared. “Find her. Stop her!”

  “Are you mad?” Cedric cried. “They were filthy and lice-ridden.”

  “Our answer is there,” Dante exclaimed.

  Cedric rushed to the back of the house and found the clothes in a pile near the fire pit. Picking them up with a laundry stick, he carried them back into the bedchamber. Dante snatched his soiled jacket and ripped it open. A piece of linen was hiding in the lining of the jacket. He slumped back and sighed with relief.

  “What the devil is it?” Rhun asked.

  “Something my mother gave me before she died with instructions to keep it safe. She said I would know when it was time.”

  “Time for what?” Rhun asked.

  Cedric looked at the cloth. “It is nothing more than a swatch of white linen.”

  “Is it time?” Rhun asked.

  “I will know later,” Dante murmured. “But for now, leave me in peace.”

  Chapter 12

  The sun had not yet come up but already someone was baking. Ci
rce rolled over smelling the aroma of pumpkin.

  “Circe, time to rise!”

  Opening one eye, she saw that Ruith’s pallet was empty. She pulled the covers over her head, not wanting to get out of bed. The past two days had been a charcoal gray with a cold rain falling, and she had a feeling that it would be the same today.

  “Circe?” Ruith called again.

  Ripping the covers from her head, she asked irritably. “Why are you up?”

  “I’ve been baking pies for Bullfrog, two pumpkin and one apple.”

  Circe rolled over and stared at the ceiling remembering that they were going to see Bullfrog today. That made her feel better. She had been working too much lately, and this outing was a welcome diversion.

  Every autumn Rhun brought winter supplies to Bullfrog, but this year, he could not go. He was accompanying Saffir and the children to visit Saffir’s parents in another settlement. Circe and Ruith were making the delivery instead. Rhun had wanted one of the younger men to take the supplies, but Circe insisted on going. “Father, you forget that Ruith and I are no longer children.”

  “That’s not it, Circe. It is a long way and confusing.”

  “I know my way around the Great Marsh better than anyone here,” she argued.

  “Yes, but the Indians--”

  “Relations have been more relaxed lately. You said so yourself.”

  “Oh, Circe,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

  “Please?”

  “Well, promise me you will be cautious and vigilant?”

  “I will,” she said, kissing his cheek. She dashed off before he could change his mind.

  Circe jumped out of bed. Pouring water into a basin, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth with a flayed sprig and then pulled her hair out of her bedtime braid. After dressing in a brown woolen gown and stiff bodice, she twisted her tresses into a tight knot and stuffed them up inside a white coif. The Puritan garb was a necessary disguise, even though it brought back unpleasant memories.

  “How long have you been up?” Circe said, looking at the pies cooling as she climbed down the ladder.

  “For hours. Now eat something quickly. The sun is about to come up and I want to spend as much time as possible enjoying the day.”

  Circe noticed Ruith had reddened her lips and cheeks. “Did you put berry stain on?”

  She touched her face. “Yes, did I apply too much?”

  “No, but we are just going to the Great Marsh,” Circe replied, looking confused. “It’s not Calan Mai.”

  “Mother told me we must look our best every day.”

  Circe shrugged and spooned oatmeal into her trencher.

  They packed the skiff and were on their way after a hot breakfast. It was indeed another cold, gloomy day, but the young women were dressed in warm woolen clothing. Thoughts of spring and Calan Mai warmed her as Circe guided the boat down the cold river. She wondered how Alwyn Charles fared. Every year she would steal away during the spring festival and meet the ovate’s son by a pond in the woods. She had her first carnal experience with him in that spot years ago, and every Calan Mai thereafter they would meet. It had been difficult to sneak away under the watchful eye of her father, but the clandestine nature of the rendezvous made it all the more thrilling. Indeed, the excitement seemed to be the only reason she wanted to meet Alwyn. The rest of the year she showed little interest in him, in spite of his advances.

  Most of the young women Circe’s age were married by now, but she did not want a husband. She was far too dedicated to her craft to make time for a man. She remembered then that Alwyn had grown serious with another girl over the summer. She shrugged and smiled. It mattered not.

  “What are you smiling about Circe?”

  “Honestly Ruith, I will never understand how you know when I’m smiling. Can you read my mind?”

  “Sort of. I can feel it.”

  “I was just thinking about Alwyn. I like him but he was never my blond Norse god.”

  “Of a certainty. He was no Baldr. Did you hear that he is getting married on Beltane?”

  “Is he now? I was wondering.”

  When they arrived at Bullfrog’s dugout, he had just finished skinning a deer. His hands and apron were covered with blood.

  “What have we here!” he exclaimed as they approached, looking at the baskets on their shoulders. “Your father is a good man, Circe; such bounty. He hasn’t noticed, though, that I am no longer a boy. I can take care of myself.”

  Bullfrog had indeed become an adult. He was huge with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, carrying the bulk of his weight in his overdeveloped upper body. With short legs, bulging eyes, and a wide smile, he still resembled a bullfrog. A tangled mass of brown hair capped his low forehead, and birds still fluttered around him.

  Circe laughed and bent down to pet his dog. “No matter what our age, we will always be children to my father.”

  “Aye,” he replied, taking a scoop of soft soap and plunging his hands into a bucket of water. After picking up a towel, he said, “Hello, Ruith.”

  “Hello, Bullfrog. I baked some pies for you,” she said, sliding the basket off her shoulders.

  “There are more supplies in the skiff,” Circe added.

  “How about one of those pies, Ruith?” he suggested.

  She handed him an apple pie and Circe noticed her blush.

  Wiping a knife on the leg of his breeches, Bullfrog cut a huge slice and started eating it with his hands.

  Circe wrinkled her nose. “Honestly, Bullfrog, you have lived alone too long.”

  “What? I’m hungry,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

  “Oh, it pleases me,” Ruith said.

  Circe noticed Bullfrog’s eyes linger on Ruith’s face a moment and then he looked away self-consciously.

  “Do you need help today, Bullfrog?” Circe asked.

  “I should start scraping that hide, but--” and he hesitated. “Let’s not work. Let’s take the skiff out one last time to fish and explore before winter. Things will be freezing soon.”

  “Oh, that would be grand!” Ruith exclaimed. “May we return to our island?”

  “Yes, but first we empty the boat,” he replied.

  The three stayed out in the marsh all day fishing and exploring, even though the wind chafed their skin and numbed their fingers. They rowed to their secluded island to cook their catch. It had just enough shoreline to build a fire and an abundance of trees for shelter.

  After they ate, Bullfrog said, “We had better return now. I want you two to warm yourselves before you make the journey home.”

  “Already?” Ruith said.

  “The days are short this time of year.”

  “We have sleighs now in Glendower,” Circe said, standing up and brushing herself off. “We may be able to visit you this winter.”

  “I hope you do,” he replied. “The winters are long and lonely, even for me.”

  “Circe, let’s talk with them first thing,” Ruith said.

  Reluctantly, they climbed back into the skiff and returned to Bullfrog’s landing. As he was tying off the boat, Ruith stood up too quickly and caught her toe in the hem of her skirt. Circe lunged for her, but it was too late. They both tumbled into the icy water.

  In a flash, Bullfrog scooped Ruith into his arms. She began to tremble, gasping for air with soaked clothing and hair plastered to her face. Bullfrog rushed up the hill with her in his arms to the dugout.

  Circe stared at them and then pulled herself up onto the shore. Although she had not fallen completely into the marsh, the bottom of her gown was soaked, and her shoes were filled with water. “Do not fret about me,” she called.

  When she returned to the house, Bullfrog was building a fire. Ruith was standing behind a cupboard peeling off her wet clothes.

  “Quickly, get her something dry, Circe!” he barked. “Over there on the pegs.”

  She made a face at him and yanked shirts and britches off the wall.

  Bullfrog’s dugo
ut was so small that in no time the shelter was warm, and the clothes were steaming by the fire. Sitting by the hearth, with an old quilt over her shoulders and a cup of tea in her hand, Circe felt snug and secure. There was a braided rug from Saffir on the floor, herbs hanging from the ceiling, candles and pewter plates resting on the mantel.

  “I was worried about these clothes drying in time,” Bullfrog said jumping up and feeling the wet garments. “But you will have them in plenty of time.”

  “Thank you, Bullfrog,” Ruith said shyly. “For carrying—for bringing me so quickly to the house.”

  He shrugged and looked away. “It could have been dangerous remaining out there for too long.”

  Circe looked from Ruith to Bullfrog and back again. Things felt stiff suddenly and she had no idea the reason.

  After their clothing dried and they had some soup, the young women set out for Glendower. It was a cold journey, but they were home by sunset.

  That night in bed, Circe lie awake fretting. She was upset about this new turn of events. What was wrong with Ruith and Bullfrog? She stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to find an answer. At last, she rolled over and sighed. There was nothing she could do. She must resign herself to the fact that they no longer liked each other.

  * * *

  The first flakes of snow came early in December, and Circe was behind in her weaving. Signs from the Goddess pointed to a cold, brutal winter ahead. There was a great need for woolen cloaks and tartans. Demand was also high because followers of the Goddess were pouring into Glendower. She was grateful that many did their own weaving at home with warp-weighted wall looms, otherwise she would be overwhelmed.

  “Thank you for staying late,” she said to her apprentice one snowy evening.

  “Are you certain everything is in order, Mistress Swinburne?” the girl asked, tying on her cloak.

  “Yes, the loom set up was done perfectly.”

  “I bid you good night,” she said, opening the door. A gust of wind blew snow into the room.

  “Good night,” Circe said.

  Sighing, she turned back to her loom. She had promised that the woolen cloth would be done by morning, and so she wove that night until the candles burned low.

  Her hands flew, sliding the shuttle back and forth as she pulled the beater and worked the treadles. As usual, she began to hum. The clatter of the four-poster loom was so loud that she didn’t hear someone step into the room.