Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1)

by Steele Alexandra

  “No.” Frederica pulled out the chair that Spencer usually sat in and paused as if she were about to sit, but seemed to think better of it and remained standing. “How is she? My daughter?”

  “Well, my lady.” Abigail answered, and did not miss the flicker of emotion in the woman’s eyes.

  “I should like to see for myself, but I know you have been retained precisely for the purpose of keeping me away.” Now there was more than just a flicker of emotion in Frederica’s eyes. She looked angry and sorrowful, and Abigail suddenly felt lower and dirtier than she ever had before. My son has to eat, she reminded herself. I have to eat. This new job of hers was good for them, gave them stability and a roof that didn’t leak. She couldn’t afford to have pangs of conscience.

  “You know, I didn’t approve of her decision to dismiss the last governess.” Frederica was speaking in a measured tone, but the sadness in her eyes was both hard to look at and hard to look away from. “Justine loved her so, and she’d been my daughter’s only companion for so many years. I didn’t want her to hire you,” Frederica revealed, and then she hurried on, as if in apology, “but then I heard that you were a mother, and I was glad. I knew that, as a mother, you would see that my daughter needs… a mother. And since I am forbidden to be that to her… Of course you couldn’t really be her mother… it would be indecent, the difference in station…” Frederica couldn’t seem to articulate exactly what she was thinking, so she kept stopping and starting, trailing off and then starting again. “And Justine is a strong girl, she doesn’t need much. But I had hoped that you would… remind her to put on her warmer nightdress on nights when the Haligorn gets cold… or,” Frederica struggled for words. “Read to her sometimes… She knows how to read of course, but she used to love being read to when she was little. Not scholarly texts. Stories. The more fanciful the better. Her favorite soup is tomato. No onions.” As Frederica spoke she reached out, seemingly unconsciously, and gripped each of Abigail’s hands in her own. She leaned in closer, until Abigail could see the rings under her eyes, the blush of purple beneath the powder she’d caked around each eye. “I’m sure she’s told you by now that she always likes to have a little candle lit at night. But sometimes that blows out, so always make sure that there’s a second candle lit, so that she isn’t afraid if she wakes up in the middle of the night and the first one has gone out. I don’t want her to be afraid. I—” Frederica drew in a shuddering breath.

  “She’s very well.” Abigail said, “Very brave, very smart. A wonderful girl.”

  Frederica nodded as though she already knew as much. “Yet the Queen can’t see it. It scares me the way my mother-in-law looks at Justine sometimes. How could that woman’s mind be so poisoned against her own granddaughter? What could my daughter have said to Tryphena?” She was rambling now, musing to herself as if Abigail wasn’t there at all.

  “My Lady, I’m sure nothing Justine said could have offended the Queen, why, Justine was just a child when she was first locked away.”

  “Who?” Frederica asked.

  “Justine…”

  “No,” Frederica stared up at Abigail, her face frozen somewhere between sadness and fury. “Not Justine. Cicely.”

  Thoroughly confused, Abigail opened her mouth and then closed it again. They had begun by speaking about Justine and her imprisonment in the tower. When had their conversation turned to the other daughter, the only one even more isolated than Justine?

  The confusion on Abigail’s face seemed to remind Frederica that she was not speaking to an insider, but rather a stranger, and a common stranger at that. The princess pulled herself together. She recoiled suddenly from Abigail and then looked her up and down, coolly, appraisingly, as though they were just now meeting and hadn’t spoken before. “Take care of her,” Frederica said, but now her tone was clipped.

  “Of course,” Abigail curtsied deeply, and before she had straightened up the princess was on her way.

  ***

  Spencer should have known that the sisters would not give up on their plan to take him calling on the castle witch and her apprentice. They had caught him at the mouth of the footbridge, just as he was about to return to the Haligorn. He would have put up more resistance, but he had just spent an entire morning running errands for his mother and he was not looking forward to being assigned a whole new slew of tasks upon his return. And so he found himself following the sisters down the mazelike corridors of the keep, listening to Daphne and Lorna bicker the entire way. As he chuckled softly behind them, he realized that for the first time since he’d met Daphne and Lorna, he’d almost forgotten they were royalty.

  They turned the corner, and there was a strange cloying smell. It was a blend of herbs, foreign and smoky. As they followed the scent, the architecture of the corridor changed. The ceiling was lower, the walls were carved of darker stone, and the doors along the hall were not engraved with flowers or royal insignia like those in the other corridors. Instead they were carved with darker, more dynamic images. Dragons twisted and flailed against each other, embroiled in battle. Three magicians summoned a double-headed demon in a magic circle. Instead of lion’s head door knockers there were gaping inhuman faces. Perhaps they were supposed to be goblins, or maybe elves, it was hard to say, but their wide, animalistic eyes, so realistically carved, made his skin crawl.

  As they drew closer to the end of the hall, Spencer could hear someone making a soft noise. It sounded like singing but it was hard to say for sure because the voice was low and quiet and the tone was subdued. As they stopped in front of the final door on the corridor, which had the most grotesque doorknocker of all, a second voice joined the first one. This one was higher, clearer and colder, and then Spencer heard enough to know that they were singing in some foreign tongue.

  Daphne wasn’t the least bit shy about interrupting them as she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door. The singing stopped immediately and Spencer heard rapid footsteps. The door was flung open by a very tall, very slender woman with long brown hair. “I told you that—” she paused and faltered when she saw that they weren’t whoever she was expecting.

  She was in her early to mid-thirties and had a pretty face but slightly crooked teeth. She looked from one princess to the other, dropped to an easy and elegant curtsy, and then opened the door wide to let them in. Her curious gaze fell on Spencer for just a minute before she turned, took a few quick steps, and called out, rather sharply, “Melisande! Melisande you have guests!”

  She must be Felunhala, then, Spencer thought, staring up at her, searching for any sign that she could speak to black cats or spent her evenings peering into crystal balls, divining secrets that no ordinary person could even dream of. Her face and body were quite ordinary. He saw no warts, no hunchback, and while her nails were rather long, they did not resemble claws. Her outfit looked the part though. She wore long robes of red velvet and there were many pendants around her neck and many bracelets on each wrist. She wore only one ring, though, a gold one with a big jade stone, and it was the most opulent piece of jewelry he’d ever seen.

  “Melisande!” Felunhala sounded like she was running out of patience. She tucked some of her very long brown hair behind her ear and sounded remarkably like Spencer’s mother as she scolded her tardy apprentice. “Don’t keep your guests waiting. Forgive me, your highnesses. Melisande can be so slow sometimes. May I offer you anything at all?” She asked, curtsying to the princesses once more.

  She did not acknowledge Spencer, which was fine by him, because it freed him to stare around at her apartments. They were standing in a large antechamber which was quite richly furnished but sadly lacking in witchy décor, save for a long cabinet against one wall. A small bowl of incense smoked away on the top of the cabinet, surrounded by a ring of six white candles. The cabinet doors were glass, and Spencer craned his neck to catch a glimpse of whatever was stored inside, but the windows were outfitted with heavy black curtains which hid everything from view, save for a knobby white b
ranch which poked out from the side of the curtain and looked thrillingly like a wand.

  There was a strange fluttering noise from over Spencer’s head and then a dull creak. He started and when he glanced up anxiously he saw that a large bird had come to perch on the enormous iron lantern that hung from the ceiling. Spencer squinted to make out the species, expecting it to be a raven or some other black bird. Instead, it was a small, sharp-beaked falcon, a compact but powerful bird with lovely, dusky red markings. It gave a low whistle and launched itself from the lantern to Felunhala’s shoulder, where it perched only a moment before it dove silently for the ground, legs and talons extended, reaching for something that huddled behind a curtain. The bird hovered there for a moment, wings flapping violently as it plucked at the foot of the curtain, and then wheeled away with something dark clutched in its talons. The falcon dove through an open door and vanished into some other room. Lorna gasped and Spencer flinched. Daphne leaned forward curiously. “What was that?”

  “A rat, highness,” Felunhala answered with a curtsy. “We breed them ourselves for use in spells, and when we have extras we release them for the bird. He likes to hunt like a wild animal.”

  “I see,” Daphne answered. Spencer couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was horrified, fascinated, or utterly unfazed.

  “Last year we were feeding him chicks, but Melisande would cry something awful whenever he caught one. She’s too squeamish, that girl.” Felunhala said, as though she expected most people to be perfectly comfortable with feeding tiny chicks to ravenous birds.

  Daphne didn’t seem to know how to respond as something stirred in a dark doorway across the room. A young woman emerged from the shadows; or perhaps she was a girl. It was difficult to say. She was in that strange in-between age that melded childhood and adulthood so seamlessly. For all Spencer knew, she could have been fourteen or eighteen. She was slender, like Felunhala, but not as tall and not as strong looking either. There was wanness to her, paleness in her cheek and hesitance in her step that made Spencer wonder if she had what it took to be apprentice to the Royal Witch. Her hair was very blonde, almost the same shade of gold as the bangles on the wrist of her Mistress. It was very long, very straight, and a little damp, as though recently washed. Glancing from her long hair to Felunhala’s lengthy tresses, Spencer wondered if the rumors were true: that Witches never cut their hair for fear of stunting their powers.

  Melisande did not look particularly pleased to see two Princesses of the Realm calling on her. She paused in the doorway, glancing inexpressively between Felunhala, the two princesses and Spencer.

  “Melisande,” Felunhala said, when her apprentice did not appear very responsive. “The royal family does us a great honor,” she curtsied once more in Daphne and Lorna’s direction, and Spencer began to understand why Daphne had such a profound sense of self-importance. It had to be easy to get big-headed if you had adults curtsying and bowing to you all day. Melisande dipped into a silent curtsy as well, but made no move otherwise. Her white lips twitched as though she were about to speak, but then she seemed to think better of it, and Spencer stared into her eyes and tried to identify the emotion that he found there. Was she frightened? Was she angry?

  Daphne didn’t seem to be particularly put-off by her friend’s behavior though. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said commandingly to Felunhala, and if the woman didn’t like being ordered about by a fifteen year old, she hid it well.

  “Of course, Highness,” Felunhala said obediently. “Would you care to retire to our-”

  “Here is fine,” Daphne interrupted her. “That will be all.”

  Felunhala curtsied once more and then backed gracefully out of the room, casting an unreadable glance at Melisande as she moved, closing the door softly as she left.

  Melisande blinked as her mistress left, and then she seemed to shake herself awake. There were dark shadows under her eyes, but her irises themselves were an unusual shade of very light brown. He had ample opportunity to study her eyes, since they were currently fixed on him. “Who—” she began, but her voice cracked on the first word, as though she hadn’t spoken much recently. She coughed, cleared her throat and tried again. “Who is this?”

  “This is Spencer,” Daphne announced without preamble. “His mother is Mrs. Tattersall. She’s Justine’s new jailer out in the Haligorn.” Spencer couldn’t help the little flush of outrage that rose in his cheeks at that, but he did not argue. Even he had to admit that Daphne’s description of his mother’s role was more or less accurate.

  Melisande gazed past Daphne at Spencer. “I am Melisande.”

  Spencer nodded, unsure how he was supposed to greet the Apprentice to the Royal Witch. “Greetings,” he said finally. Melisande stared at him gravely.

  “What’s new?” Daphne injected herself into the conversation boisterously.

  “Well, we’ve had a lot of the usual,” Melisande sighed as though accustomed to giving this report. She seated herself on one of the small couches in the antechamber, and Spencer noticed a faint expression of pain cross her face as she shifted in her seat.

  “Love philtres?” Lorna asked eagerly.

  “Eight, I think,” Melisande nodded.

  “For anyone important?” Daphne asked, practically bouncing on the edge of her seat.

  “Well, two of them were noblewomen,” Melisande revealed.

  “Ooh, who? Are either of them married?”

  “No,” Melisande said, and she gave their names and titles, which meant nothing to Spencer.

  “Oh,” Daphne looked disappointed. “Do you know who the philtres were meant for?”

  Melisande shook her head.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if they were both meant for the same man?” Lorna piped up.

  “It has happened before,” Melisande said seriously. Daphne and Lorna both insisted on hearing the story, and Melisande obliged them, launching into the tale with a liveliness that was surprising given her wan appearance. But Spencer watched as she talked; there was a shadow in her eyes that did not leave, even as she recounted the hilarity that had ensued when the son of the Castle Cook ingested love potions from two different women and proposed marriage to both of them on the same day.

  “What else?” Daphne immediately asked when Melisande had finished. “Is anything else going on?”

  “We have had visitors,” Melisande began, and then stopped herself.

  Daphne’s expression darkened. “Visitors? My mother and father? My grandmother? Does she want another opinion on the Prophecy?”

  “The Queen doesn’t come to us for her prophecy,” Melisande said, and now there was something like anger in her eyes. “The Prophet, and only the Prophet, has her ear. No, just various people from the Castle. I had a doctor visit me yesterday. He’s researching a beast he claims to have seen in the dungeon.”

  “Rathbone!” Daphne looked delighted at the physician’s reappearance on the scene. “Is he still about? After what Lorna told me I would have thought he’d returned to whatever province he came from.”

  “No,” Melisande revealed softly. “He’s still here.”

  “Any idea what the beast is?” Daphne asked excitedly.

  “Yes.” Melisande answered definitively. “A figment of his imagination, conjured from the depths of a tormented mind.”

  Daphne’s face fell. Lorna looked relieved. “You don’t think it’s real?”

  Melisande shook her head. “You’d be surprised what power a fragmented mind holds.”

  Daphne seemed particularly disappointed. “Well, what about the Fool, is Felunhala still—” she was interrupted by Melisande’s warning hiss, and she lowered her voice significantly before continuing, “well, is she still seeing him?”

  Melisande’s eyes were wide as she shook her head. “I don’t know what happened between them, but she’s been upset since court last night. He must have done something.”

  Lorna shuddered. “I don’t know what she ever saw in him in the fi
rst place.”

  “What else? What other visitors?” Daphne continued, eager for more gossip.

  “Well, the Librarian visited us several times. He wanted something, but we couldn’t oblige.”

  Spencer’s spine stiffened. “Oh,” Daphne kept her tone casual. “What did he want?”

  “It’s about that book that was stolen,” Melisande told them. “He’s absolutely desperate to have it back.”

  “What did he want from you?” Lorna asked.

  “There’s a ritual he wants us to perform, but we can’t spare the time, or the energy. The Queen has many other tasks for us and she has not commanded an investigation into the theft of the book. To do the spell he asks of us we require a direct order from the Queen.”

  “What spell is that?” It was the first question Spencer had asked the entire visit; Melisande’s mention of the book had piqued his interest far more than gossip about the Fool.

  Melisande stared back at him seriously. He wondered if she ever smiled. “In his haste to flee the library, the thief lost a personal possession. One of the gloves he was wearing caught on something and was left behind. There is a spell that would allow us to identify the owner of that glove, but we also have a lake rising and of course there’s Blaxton.” Spencer cared little for the squabbles of aristocracy, but he wanted to know more about the book. However, Melisande seemed tired of the topic. “So, tell me about yourself, Spencer,” the witch’s apprentice asked, and there was a shadow of Daphne’s command in her voice.

  Startled by the sudden change of topic, it took Spencer a moment to find his voice. “I’m from the provinces,” he told her. “My mother and I came to the castle about a month ago. She works at the Haligorn.”

  “Which province?” Melisande asked with unexpected curiosity.