The Sorcerer (The Witch Trilogy Book 3)

by Cheryl Potter

  Before settling down with Anna she had moved through the house, smearing a little of the soil, the scrapings of moss she had gathered from around the gravestone, across the front and back thresholds, the foot of the stairs, at the entrance to Anna’s room, over the windowsill. Finally, nails caked with the precious earth, she unfastened her daughter’s wrists and lay down with her to wait.

  Behind her on the chair she had dragged close to the bedside was the drawstring bag – all but empty now of its hallowed contents. Spoils she had collected from around the gravestone, that mark of respect erected forty years ago by a generous parish for a body dragged from the water ... the body of a woman handsome and well-heeled, her identity unknown except to Matthew Marsden, her son and her killer. And to Kate.

  Long ago she had discovered the power Ignotus had over the living Marsden. That knowledge had been her salvation then. Facing mortal danger in the courtyard of a blazing inn, it had been given to her to tap that power – to draw it through herself – and thwart the man who meant to kill her and their infant son, François.

  The mortal Marsden had been destroyed that day ... but the essence of him remained. And his malign spirit was not done with her or with her children – would never be done until he had his vengeance. Starting with her youngest child.

  Only in the past few hours had it dawned on her that Ignotus must have power over him still. Standing by the window in the moonlight with the wolf scratching at the door, the knowing had come upon her. In a moment of blinding clarity she suddenly understood why Anna been drawn so often to that neglected corner of St Giles’ graveyard; why the wolf spectre had attacked her there. His sentinel – the savage incarnation of a once brutal man, had been warding her away.

  The remains of Marsden’s mother, the ground which housed her, were so guarded, so much a lure to him because she was the only person he had ever loved; the only murder in a string of atrocities he had ever rued.

  Knowing was the key. Something of Ignotus brought here to the cottage, something of Kate’s self left behind in the earth beneath the cracked headstone. Earth from the grave of Ignotus brought home to the cottage ... Cassy’s locket – the twists of hair it contained – left in its place. A precious exchange.

  And Kate’s last hope.

  Anna’s shoulder gently rose and fell against her. Timbers creaked on the stairs, in the roof space beyond the ceiling. According to Goody Witherspoon a murderer and his accomplices had been executed that day. Fighting to stay awake, Kate pictured the same the gust of wind that now rattled the window casement stirring the bodies on Tyburn tree at the far end of the lane.

  Then a sound in the room, as of a rasping sigh. Kate stiffened. Into the unnatural silence that followed she began to sing; ‘Lullay, lullay thou little tiny child....’

  Another protracted sigh. Anna’s breathing was shallower now and though she was still Kate sensed she was awake – that she was listening.

  Huskily she went on; ‘Bye, bye, lully, lullay‒’

  Anna rolled on to her back and cocked her head to listen.

  Kate sang: ‘O sisters too, how may we do, for to preserve this day....’

  A voice not Anna’s issued from the girl then. Kate felt the masculine vibration of it through their touching bodies; knew it was Marsden’s. ‘Fie Kate, you know she is lost to you. Anna is the obedient servant you never were....’

  Rising above the tightening sensation across her chest, the gripping at the base of her skull, Kate pressed two fingers against Anna’s lips and sang brokenly;

  ‘....this poor youngling for whom we sing, bye, bye lully lullay....’

  Suddenly excited, Anna sprang up to sitting. Pushing Kate away she scrambled down to the end of the bed and stared into the shadows. Kate lunged after her but Anna’s clenched fist flew out at her touch and caught her a stunning blow across the bridge of her nose. Kate toppled backwards with a yelp, hitting her head on the bedside chair as she fell towards the floor.

  Unseen hands found Kate’s arms as she knelt on the floorboards fighting to clear her head; pinioned her, then dragged her to her feet as if she were no heavier than a doll. Her face throbbed and she could taste blood. She struggled against the restraint, kicking back as hard as her leaden legs could manage, but the grip only tightened, crushing abdomen against spine, bruising, punishing ... nailing her to the spot.

  There came the click of steel on flint. Anna’s profile and neck glimpsed in the flash of the sparks, the tip of her tongue showing between her lips as she concentrated on the tinderbox ... squatting on the floor no more than a foot away. Then darkness.

  ‘Anna‒’ Kate breathed.

  ‘Mother.’ Anna’s own voice this time.

  ‘Do you remember holding your father’s hands while he walked you up and down on the toes of his slippers‒?’

  Another metallic strike. Kate could see enough in the sparks of light to know that Anna was looking up at her now.

  Encouraged, Kate pressed: ‘The patch in his coat you used to pick at ... the smell of pipe‒’

  This time the charcloth flared. Anna offered the wick of a beeswax candle to it. Shielding the flame with her free hand, she tipped her head and smiled archly.

  ‘Why would you have her remember such a milksop? She who has feasted on blood and revenge? Be damned with your lullabies and dirty hands!’

  As his words fell from Anna’s mouth, the girl plunged her fingers into the tinderbox and flung the burning cloth among the bedclothes.

  ‘No, no, no‒’ railed Kate. She lunged after the burning cloth but was held back by a grip so punishing she thought her spine might snap. She could only watch as Anna wafted the charcloth with the sheet, as she tore strips from the hem of her shift and watched them ignite in the candle flame before dropping them on to the bed.

  At the first it seemed the charcloth might peter out, as the linen strips had so far done in the absence of kindling; the shrinking flames, curls of smoke. Then from the mattress under the charcloth came a flickering halo of blue flame. Kate, who had been pleading with her daughter to stop, fell silent as the flaming ring widened and spread through the straw filling. As the singed sheet, the cloak that had covered them both, first smouldered then suddenly exploded into flame.

  Kate’s arms went up to protect her face from the intense heat. Choking on smoke, she staggered back a step. And though the impression of being held lingered, she realized then that she was free at last.

  The bed was blazing now; the seagrass chair seat, the drawstring bag already burning. Anna was nowhere to be seen. Kate crawled rapidly around the bed towards the door sobbing her daughter’s name above the roaring fire. Then the door burst open, crashing back against a wooden chest. At the same instant the casements flew open – glass and window bars erupting into the lane. And Kate was engulfed by light and flame.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t you go looking at the sun, Katharine, you’ll burn your eyes!’

  She was lying in damp grass, peeping through her fingers into the brilliance of a summer sky. She could hear the trickle of the stream, the hum of insects in the blue flower’s of her mother’s borage. She rolled over and tugged at her mother’s skirts.

  Elizabeth Gurney shook her head. ‘The wool won’t card itself, child ... and you’ll be the first to complain of a hungry belly.’ With an indulgent sigh, she sat down in the grass. Kate shuffled close and laid the back of her head on her mother’s lap.

  ‘I don’t need my eyes to see, mother. There’s seeing and there’s seeing.’

  ‘Lord have mercy, child. No-one must ever hear you say such things ... do you hear me? This world will only take one kind of seeing.’

  ‘Our secret forever.’

  ‘Forever, child.’

  She kissed her mother’s knee through her skirts, then whispered: ‘Never leave me, mother.’

  ‘Don’t you fret, child ... now get to your feet.’

  ‘Get to your feet....’

  There was no room, no bed, only
shimmering brilliance ... and him. Kate rose from her knees and faced François Borri, the man once known as Matthew Marsden. As he held out his hand to her, his lips relaxed into a smile, not so much of triumph as welcome.

  ‘This time, shepherdess ... come to me.’

  Kate braced herself against a sudden gust of air. On the edges of her sight figures materialized then vanished again into the shimmer. A hum of whispering voices. Instinctively she raised her arms to shoulder level; tipped her head back with a gasp as energy coursed through her body, upwards and outwards. Fingers of light radiated from her head, streamed from her fingertips.

  Figures loomed closer now, lingered, drawing a ring around the two of them; the shepherdess and the cunning man. His gaze narrowed as he stared about him. Then a hooded figure stepped forward into the space between Kate and Marsden. Pale hands eased back the hood. It was a face Kate had first seen in a vision on Blackwood Top: that same beautiful face, the dark hair drawn down to a bun at the neck – gleaming in the light.

  ‘Mother‒?’ Marsden’s voice cracked.

  Kate brought her palms together as if in prayer. Every fibre in her body was vibrating now.

  ‘Mother....’

  Ignotus turned towards her son, her pale hands outstretched.

  Kate said; ‘Take her hand, François ... come to the light.’

  Something was terribly wrong; François knew it by the churning in his gut, the tightening at the base of his skull. Before he heard the first cry of ‘Fire!’, before he saw the intense light at the bedroom window in Tyburn Lane, he feared it might already be too late.

  Margot clung to him as he dug his heels into the sides of the bay horse scattering a handful of half-dressed onlookers. They were only just out of the saddle when the fire blew out the window. As shattered wood and glass rained down, the horse reared twice then galloped off into the darkness.

  Shielding his head, François was across the lane, making for the front door when Margot called; ‘Wait! Wait! Someone is up there!’

  Doubling back, he followed her pointing finger up to the roof. Standing on the ridge, high above the gushing flames, shift flapping, arms outstretched for balance, was the unmistakable figure of his sister Anna.

  ‘Mon Dieu, what was that?’ breathed Margot. ‘There – it crossed the tiles – a dog? See, now it is behind her‒’

  François saw the darkling shadow; the fluid bound that took it over the gable tiles. Not a dog, nor any worldly creature. Suddenly he was lifted above the din of the fire and the shouting. Totally focused on Anna, he moved around to get a better view of the ridge; beyond the distraction of flame and shimmering heat. The moon was behind her now, revealing the fragile nakedness through her blowing night-clothes. And there between Anna and the gable end, blocking the circle of the moon with its immense body, was the wolf he had confronted in Kate’s kitchen that day.

  François’s entire body began to vibrate with suppressed energy. Transfixed, he watched Anna inch towards the demon wolf, felt the trembling of her slender body, her gasps of excitement as she buried her fingers in the wiry fur of its haunches. The great head arched backwards. Though he could not hear the protracted howl, it passed through him. And he knew its intention, even before the great beast launched towards the gable end; before it leapt clear of the roof.

  Before Anna ran those last three steps and hurled herself into space....

  He knew. And he was there.

  Inmates

  Colonel Johann van Leeuwen looked up from the document on his Whitehall desk and narrowed his eyes at the two men standing waiting. His face was shrewd, his eyes missed nothing.

  Major Winthrop ... Lord Herries,’ he said dryly, ‘His Highness the Prince of Orange is engaged in matters of constitution and affairs of state. Are you seriously asking me to trouble him about the fate of this Captain Fuller – or should I call him François Jeakes?’

  Winthrop cleared his throat. ‘Fuller has twice been commended for service to the Prince, sir.’

  ‘So I see,’ replied Van Leeuwen, leaning back in his chair. ‘I also understand that he was enlisted after escaping penal servitude.’

  ‘Some might call it an heroic escape from the hands of Catholic persecutors, sir,’ Winthrop countered.

  Van Leeuwen’s features twisted into a wry smile. ‘Are you not of the Catholic persuasion, Lord Herries?’

  Winthrop persevered; ‘It would be a pity to lose a good man in such circumstances, sir. And it would bring dishonour on the Prince’s army.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Is His Majesty to be held accountable for every man-jack who cares to join his army?’

  ‘No, colonel,’ Herries put in, ‘but there are fresh pamphlets on the streets, Arnaud Chevalier has seen to that. I believe he has also made approaches to the London Gazette. His accusations of seduction and murder are salacious and damning. He has dubbed Jeakes The Sorcerer, and he condemns the army for harbouring him.’

  Van Leeuwen linked his fingers in contemplation. ‘Pamphlets‒?’

  Winthrop nodded. ‘Chevalier is an aggrieved man.’

  ‘A man of determination and influence,’ Van Leeuwen added soberly. ‘Are you aware that he has already lodged petitions with parliament and His Highness? That he communicates with the highest authorities in France?’

  Charles Herries tapped his hat against the side of his leg. ‘And what of justice?’

  Van Leeuwen pursed his lips. ‘Monsieur Chevalier’s son was gravely wounded. He has delivered up the culprit‒’

  ‘A falsehood!’ objected Herries.

  Van Leeuwen lifted his hands impatiently. ‘Very well, the man he believes to be the culprit. Is he not entitled to submit his grievance to the law? Must I remind you, gentlemen, these are uncertain days; at such times the slightest spark can unsettle the people. If the disaffected should rise, where then is order?’

  ‘So the life of an innocent man must be sacrificed in the name of expediency?’ Herries demanded. Shrugging off Major Winthrop’s cautionary hand, he pressed on; ‘I too am a man of influence, Colonel Van Leeuwen. And I will not tolerate any form of sham trial, or politicking, in the case of François Jeakes.’

  A moment of awkward silence. Then Van Leeuwen sat forward. ‘You are so sure of your facts, Lord Herries?’

  ‘I have a witness.’

  Van Leeuwen returned to the petitioning document and with his forefinger traced the words of the third paragraph; ‘The murderer is a young woman, you say, but you offer no clue as to her identity.’

  ‘Her name is Anna Jeakes,’ Winthrop added, ‘a poor demented creature by all accounts.’

  ‘Jeakes‒?’ Van Leeuwen echoed. ‘Some relation of our captain?’

  ‘His sister,’ Herries admitted. ‘François knows this and will offer no defence because of it ... on the night of his arrest he saved his sister from a house fire.’

  ‘Very noble,’ agreed Van Leeuwen. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, does Captain Fuller know you are here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This witness, is he prepared to submit to independent examination, to supply a sworn testimony? The murderess, she must be held to account. Are you prepared for that?’

  After the two men had gone, Colonel Van Leeuwen sat on the corner of his desk, swinging his leg pensively. Finally, he turned to his clerk: ‘Send out to Cripplegate for the Chevalier pamphlets ... I want them in my hands before my meeting with the Prince tonight.’

  Anton Morin stood in the open doorway of a side room. Behind him in the milling hall of Bethlem Royal Hospital, members of staff were endeavouring to restrain a half-naked alcoholic with a gashed brow. Before him, caught in the splay of light from the high barred window, the newly admitted patient squatted on the low mattress, head resting on knees, rocking back and forth against the lime-washed wall.

  A calm had settled on the young face, he observed. That was a hopeful sign. One day perhaps, there might be more than a mere pause in the turmoil and the suffering. Here in this hospital, completel
y removed from the circumstances, from the reminders of all that had caused this present derangement, he hoped this disturbed soul would find its cure.

  Voices rose above the babble in the hall.

  ‘Will you lay still, George Turner? How can I bind this cut with you thrashing about like an eel?’

  ‘There were flames, I’m telling you – like devil’s tongues they were ... and a great hound leaping up to the moon.’

  ‘A girl jumped off the roof, isn’t that so, George?’ humoured the attendant.

  ‘A young stripling,’ George slurred, lost in the telling, ‘falling, falling down through the flames in nowt but her nightclothes.’ There was some sniggering, a few derisive noises.

  ‘Yes, George,’ sighed the attendant, ‘now hold still.’

  ‘Fit to dash out her brains in the dirt of the road. S’Truth!’ George was yelling now to make himself heard above the rising clamour in the hall. ‘A ball of light settled round her ... so bright a body could hardly bear to look at it. One of God’s own angels wrapped the girl in his arms; set her upon the ground as if she were made of china. Gawd strike me dead if I utter a word of a lie!’

  Anton turned away from the rocking figure on the bed. Skirting the huddle around George Turner, he waited for the admissions officer to release him through the gate in the barred partition separating the hospital entrance from the communal area for inmates.

  ‘The hospital trustees will appreciate the generous donation that comes with the new inmate, Mr Morin,’ commented the admissions officer, ushering him towards the imposing outer doors. ‘As the commissioning surgeon you will doubtless be keeping a regular check on our progress.’

  Fastening his cloak, Anton stepped out into the light of early afternoon, away from the stink of drains and unclean bodies.

  ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I must commend this wretched soul to God and to the good offices of this hospital for I am soon to leave London.’