Witchstruck

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘It is good to see you again after all these years, Meg,’ my cousin said soberly, pulling out a seat for me at the table. ‘Though Will is right. He should not have asked you here tonight. It is too dangerous.’

  I sat down and looked searchingly at my brother. Now that the initial greetings were over, I could see that he was frightened, constantly glancing towards the door as though he expected men to burst in at any moment and arrest us all.

  ‘Why did you ask to meet me tonight?’ I asked Will suspiciously. ‘Your note said you had news for me.’

  ‘That was a ruse,’ he admitted, turning back to me with a sheepish expression, ‘to get you out of the house without drawing unwanted attention to us. It’s hard to know who to trust these days. The servant who carried the message may be loyal to the Queen for all we know.’

  ‘So what am I doing here?’

  My brother clasped my hand, his grip warm and damp. ‘Malcolm and I need to ask a favour from you.’ He indicated the third young man with a nod. ‘And Tom there, who’s an Oxford man too and another with no love for the Catholics.’

  I was frightened now as well. I could smell a Protestant conspiracy in the air here, and knew my brother and cousin would not easily be dissuaded from whatever mad plan they were hatching. I was also uncertain of their friend, Tom, who had said nothing but was watching us closely, his watery blue eyes reflecting the firelight.

  ‘What kind of favour?’

  My brother hesitated. ‘We need you to help us get into Woodstock. We have to speak to the Lady Elizabeth. In person and in private.’

  I stared. ‘Are you mad?’

  Malcolm leaned in, shaking his head. His voice was low and earnest. ‘It’s the only way we can be sure of our path ahead, to speak to Her Grace alone, without her watchers present.’

  ‘It will never be permitted.’

  ‘Of course not.’ My brother was impatient now. ‘That is why we need your help.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ I stared at them all in turn. ‘I am nobody.’

  Will drained his tankard compulsively, then set it down on the table with a crash.

  ‘Don’t you care what is happening to this country, Meg?’ he demanded, ignoring his cousin’s hurried gesture to lower his voice. ‘In a short space of time, Queen Mary will marry Philip, and these green hills will no longer be ours. Philip is already King of Naples. Soon he will be King of Spain too. Then England will belong to Spain and we must become Catholics, living under Spanish law. The Inquisition will come into every house in the country to search for Protestants and will have no mercy when they find them. They will torture and burn those who refuse to take Mass, and will set up their Catholic idols in every church in the land.’

  Malcolm hushed him, glancing anxiously at the open doorway into the taproom. He pushed his own full tankard towards my brother, who picked it up and began to drink without even a word of thanks.

  I realized then that Will must have been drinking most of the evening, and no longer cared what he said or who might be listening.

  My cousin turned to me. ‘All we ask,’ he told me quietly, ‘is five minutes’ private speech with the Lady Elizabeth. There are those who do not want this marriage between England and Spain to happen, and who plan to put a stop to it. But first we must know if Elizabeth will lend her support to such an uprising, and also whether she would accept the crown herself if her sister were no longer wearing it.’

  ‘But it was just such a conspiracy that brought her to this prison,’ I hissed, angry both for Elizabeth and for my impulsive brother, whom I had never known to be so interested in politics before. I suspected William had been infected by my cousin’s old obsession with ridding the country of Catholics.

  ‘Yes, and this new plot will release Elizabeth Tudor from her unjust prison and elevate her to the throne of England.’

  ‘It is more likely to land her back in the Tower of London,’ I pointed out to my cousin crossly, ‘and the rest of us with her. If you cannot see sense and drop this ridiculous conspiracy, none of us will live beyond the summer.’

  I stood up, pulling on my cloak again.

  ‘The Queen will marry her Spanish prince at the end of this month,’ I continued, keeping my voice pitched low. ‘Two Catholic priests have been sent to stay with us, to ensure Elizabeth does not slip back to Protestantism. Though I cannot see why her faith matters so much. Once Mary has a child, Elizabeth will no longer be heir to the throne.’

  ‘Yes, if Mary has a child.’ With a shy glance in my direction, Tom joined our conversation at last, speaking low and hurriedly. ‘But if she should prove barren, and Elizabeth can be shown to be down on her knees, worshipping the Holy Virgin, then she can be married off to some Catholic prince, keeping the English line of succession within the Papist fold.’

  I shivered at the thought of Elizabeth being married off to a foreigner without her consent, but had to acknowledge that Tom was probably right.

  ‘Once the marriage goes ahead, England will be a very different country,’ I agreed unhappily. ‘It is not what any of us want. But there is nothing we can do to prevent it. The sooner you three accept Catholicism and get yourself to church with the rest of us, the better your chances of survival when the Inquisition do come knocking.’

  ‘I cannot believe you are saying this, Meg,’ my brother exclaimed, jumping to his feet, ‘when a few words in the wrong ear would be enough to condemn you as a witch. Aye, and our aunt too.’

  I blanched at his cruelty, but could not weaken now. To allow them into the lodge to speak to Elizabeth alone would be beyond dangerous. It would be an act of madness that would endanger my mistress’s life as well as my own.

  I should never have come to the Bull tonight, drawn into discussing rebellion openly in this public place. My brother was too drunk to realize the danger he was running, and my cousin was too reckless to care. Who knew what ears these walls might have? It was already considered an offence to follow the Protestant faith. The country was full of Catholic informers, and even to think such things could be seen as treasonous.

  ‘We have ways of protecting ourselves,’ I told him.

  ‘Yes, I heard that the witchfinder Marcus Dent holds a special place in his heart for you.’ My brother Will was sneering at me now. ‘Does he know you practise the dark arts?’

  ‘You would not dare!’

  ‘Oh, I would never betray my own sister, not even if a whole host of Catholic torturers had me on the rack. But others would betray you for the price of a tankard of beer.’ Turning his mood in an instant, Will grasped my arm as I made angrily for the door, almost pleading with me. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. But you do not seem to realize the danger you are in. Remember that I am your brother and mean you no harm. Help us purge England of this Spanish disease. Give us five minutes alone with the Princess Elizabeth.’

  ‘Elizabeth is no longer a princess, but a prisoner of the Queen,’ I reminded him, and shook my head. ‘And I cannot help you, Will. Please don’t ask me again. Now let me go home.’

  Malcolm stood up calmly, reaching for his woollen cap. ‘Wait, you cannot go alone. Are you taking the back road? I’ll walk with you as far as the old palace. It’s not safe so late at night.’

  I wanted to refuse, but knew he was right. It would be dangerous to return alone at this hour, even on the quieter path behind the village. Besides, my brother had sunk down onto his seat again, his head in his hands, and no longer seemed to care if I was leaving with our cousin.

  Even his friend Tom would not meet my eyes, staring down into his beer.

  I bent to whisper ‘Farewell’ in my brother’s ear, wishing he would drop this madness before it proved his death, then let Malcolm guide me towards a back door so I would not have to pass through the noisy taproom again.

  * * *

  We took the streamside path that skirted the back of the village, only the moon was so bright now that we had to be careful not to be seen. Several times we had to wait in the shadows while a
drunken man, staggering home from the Bull, stopped to relieve himself in the bubbling stream. Despite the lateness of the hour, the moon seemed to have kept the birds awake, for I heard what sounded like a song thrush high above us in the dark net of branches, and later, a white owl passed on broad wings, hooting softly into the night.

  ‘I thought you were gone for good, Malcolm, that you had made yourself a home in the Low Countries. Why did you return to England?’

  Malcolm smiled and helped me across the narrow stream, his arm about my waist. ‘This is still my country. And it needs me.’

  ‘You cannot truly believe there is anything you and Will can do to stop this Spanish marriage.’

  ‘It is not just me and Will,’ he told me quietly, setting me back on dry ground. ‘There are many exiled nobles and gentlemen in the Low Countries who could be persuaded to return if they thought Elizabeth would support an uprising. But we hear so many rumours there, that the princess is now a Catholic like her sister, or that she contemplates a marriage to some Catholic prince, and people are nervous. All they need is a sign of Elizabeth’s support, some secret token to give the Protestant cause new vigour.’

  While he talked, we followed the path on the other side of the stream, striking out cross-country for the dark, unlit lurch of buildings that was the ruined palace of Woodstock. Beyond that, unseen behind trees, stood the old palace lodge where Elizabeth lay imprisoned and under constant guard.

  ‘There are many who share a belief that this Spanish marriage is wrong for England. If you could only persuade the Lady Elizabeth to give us a sign, it will act as a rallying-point for other men like us. Trust me, many thousands will rise against Mary if they think Elizabeth would accept the throne after her sister’s removal and restore England to a Protestant nation.’

  ‘But why should she not accept the throne?’ I asked daringly, testing out the question on the still night air.

  ‘She is a woman,’ he replied drily. ‘And women are unpredictable, especially when offered power.’

  I bit my tongue, not wanting to argue with my escort. It seemed to me that Elizabeth was not the kind of woman to refuse power.

  At last we reached the edge of the silent, tumbledown palace with its gaping black casements and leaning turrets. I turned to thank him, knowing it was too dangerous for him to come any closer. Bedingfield’s guards would be patrolling the old palace grounds every hour.

  Nonetheless, Malcolm insisted on accompanying me to within sight of the lodge.

  ‘I will see you safe inside before I leave,’ Malcolm said stubbornly, waving aside my whispered protest.

  In silence, we walked another quarter of a mile across the unkempt lawns and halted near the stables, in a cobbled, weed-infested yard overlooked by the back windows of the lodge. The kitchen door was near at hand, and although there was no key to secure it, I knew it was unguarded, for the hounds slept there at night and would soon bark if an intruder tried to gain entrance that way. Since I often fed them scraps when the cook wasn’t looking, I knew the dogs would not bark at me. Though my cousin was a different matter.

  Malcolm asked which was Elizabeth’s bedchamber, and seemed disappointed when I told him it was on the other side of the building, where Bedingfield’s guards tended to patrol most frequently.

  ‘Promise you will try to get us into the lodge one day soon,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘and I will leave.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  He lowered his head and kissed me lightly on the mouth. ‘Promise me.’

  I was flustered, remembering how much I had enjoyed his company as a child, following him about in a daze, my handsome older cousin.

  ‘I promise to think about it,’ I managed.

  His smile was wolfish. ‘Very well,’ he said softly, and kissed me again, this time more lingeringly. Then he pulled back and told me goodnight before melting back into the shadows, hood drawn cautiously over his head.

  I waited until Malcolm was out of sight, then turned to make my way across the yard to the kitchen door.

  Catching a sudden movement at a casement window high above, I glanced up and recognized the dark profile at the glass.

  Alejandro de Castillo, still awake at this late hour, had been watching me cross the yard.

  What else had he seen?

  Flushed and breathless, angry that the young Spaniard seemed to be spying on me, I pulled open the door and slipped into the kitchens with only a quiet word for the wolfhounds there.

  Let him watch jealously from the shadows and report my loose behaviour back to the old priest, or even to Queen Mary herself in London. I did not care what the disapproving Alejandro de Castillo thought of me, so long as he believed me a loyal Catholic and no witch.

  FOUR

  Casting the Circle

  BEING KEPT BUSY with our new regime of daily prayers and meditations on the Catholic faith, it was another five days before I was able to send a note to my aunt, warning her of the arrival of the Spanish priests at Woodstock. Along with a coin from my meagre hoard, I gave it to the servant who had brought me William’s message and asked him to ride over to Lytton Park with it as soon as he could find an excuse to leave the grounds.

  Not entirely trusting the man, I worded the message with extreme caution in case it fell into the wrong hands, and hoped she would understand. Elizabeth had stubbornly refused to miss our next meeting with my aunt. But she had at least suggested we could hold the ritual somewhere safer, beyond the patrolled grounds of Woodstock. Now all that remained was for us to slip away for an hour or two at dusk, returning before the princess was missed at evening prayers.

  On the appointed day, I took early morning Mass with the princess in the decaying palace chapel.

  We kneeled on the flagstones under the steady gaze of Alejandro de Castillo, who seemed almost more interested in my faith than in that of my mistress. Just visible through the latticed rood screen, Father Vasco blessed the wine and raised the Host, his muttered Latin incomprehensible.

  It was all I could do not to stick my tongue out at the dark-robed Alejandro when he turned solemnly to offer me the blood of Christ.

  Instead, I restricted myself to a dutiful ‘Amen’ and saw his lips twitch.

  Late that afternoon, Elizabeth took to her bed with one of her sick headaches. I was called away from mending some household linen to attend her, and found the princess at the barred window of her room, already wrapped in a dark cloak and itching to be off. Blanche Parry, though deeply disapproving of Elizabeth’s interest in magick, played her part by distracting the guard outside the bedchamber with some pretence of hurting herself on the stairs. As soon as he had gone to help, Elizabeth and I hurried out of the bedchamber and into the small room opposite, whose window opened over a low-roofed outbuilding. I helped the princess through the window, then followed her, both of us climbing down to the ground as silently as we could. Then it was only a matter of slipping round the back of the ruined palace and into the woods.

  We walked briskly through the chill of the dusk. Soon we came to the small copse known as Lady’s Wood. There, I prepared the ground for our meeting while Elizabeth looked on, clearly fascinated by my gestures and muttered incantations. I set out the candles for the ritual, then burned a bundle of dried thyme and sage, using the smoke to clear the circle of evil influences. When the place was ready, I found a quiet spot for us to hide amongst the trees.

  Shortly afterwards, I heard hooves approaching at a walk and waited impatiently for the rider to come into view.

  It was my aunt, riding a broad-backed ass through a glowing patch of moonlight. Aunt Jane slowed to a halt in the middle of the wood and sat listening, no doubt fearful of pursuit.

  I stepped out from my hiding place between the dark trees.

  At the sight of me, she dismounted and hurriedly led the beast away from the track.

  ‘I thought you were a ghost, standing there in the moonlight. You are sure you were not followed?’ my aunt asked anxiously. Onc
e I had reassured her that the three of us were alone in the woods, she dropped a curtsey to the Lady Elizabeth, then hugged me. ‘I have missed you, my little Meg. Have you been well? Indeed, you look well enough. There’s new colour in your cheeks and’ – she pinched my arm playfully – ‘more flesh on your bones.’

  ‘We are expected to sit around all day at Woodstock, sewing or reading from the scriptures,’ I complained, and led them both to the secret place I had prepared in the copse. ‘Begging the Lady Elizabeth’s pardon, but it is no wonder women grow so fat at court, with nothing to do but idle each day away at their samplers.’

  Elizabeth, who was as slim as a willow wand, merely smiled. She had heard my complaints before and I knew she sympathized, for the princess was an active young woman who loved nothing better in summer than to be out hunting or walking in the fresh air. Yet Sir Henry Bedingfield would not even permit Elizabeth to keep a horse at Woodstock.

  We sat on the woodland floor in dappled moonlight, forming a rough kind of circle that I had marked with the four candles, and listened to the trees whispering above us, the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth.

  Quietly, I told my aunt of the old Spanish priest and his attendant, and the reason for their arrival at Woodstock, though I skirted any further discussion of Alejandro de Castillo. I did not want the listening princess to know how Alejandro made me feel whenever he raised his eyes to mine. I focused on my aunt instead, asking for news of my father – who was well, it seemed, and missing me more every day – and of my home, Lytton Park, where one of the chimneys had fallen in and would not be repaired until my impoverished father could find the money to pay for it.

  I listened with interest to this talk of home, though Lytton Park already seemed a distant memory. I missed my father, but I had grown fond of the Lady Elizabeth, and the arrival of the Spanish priests had certainly changed the mundane routine of our lives.

  My aunt was thinner than when I had last seen her a month ago. Her long yellow hair was wilder than ever, and there were ominous shadows like bruises under her eyes. I had seen sick women look like that before they died, and wondered with a sudden fear if my aunt’s health was failing. She would never tell me, of course, being the kind to suffer in silence, searching for a cure herself among her herbal remedies and magick arts.