Witchstruck

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Don’t mess with the bindings,’ Alejandro reprimanded me sternly from a chair near my bedside. ‘Mistress Parry applied salve to your hurt, then spent some time bandaging it to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘My head was bleeding?’

  ‘After you fell, yes.’ He stared at me, a tense frown in his eyes. ‘How did you hurt yourself? The servant who brought you here would say nothing.’

  Briefly, I remembered Dent’s face, and his men rushing past me on the stairs, the jostling and crushing. Then my head knocking violently against the wooden rail of the banisters.

  How could I tell him? Yet how could I not?

  ‘My aunt . . .’

  He prompted me encouragingly when I stopped, unable to find the right words. ‘Your aunt?’

  ‘You remember Marcus Dent, the witchfinder?’ I closed my eyes against the look on his face. ‘He came to our house and took my aunt away, accusing her of witchery. He had brought an angry mob of villagers with him. There was a struggle, and I banged my head.’

  He spoke angrily under his breath in Spanish, and I had the impression that he was swearing.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday. No, today.’ I shook my head in confusion. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep.’

  ‘It is near dawn now. So, yesterday.’

  Remorse pricked at me fiercely. How could I have slept so long when my aunt was all alone, lying sick in some dreadful cell?

  ‘I must save Aunt Jane from that monster,’ I whispered.

  Alejandro shook his head, reminding me of my father. ‘She’s beyond saving. Once your aunt has been accused of witchcraft, there is nothing to be done. The law must run its course.’

  ‘The law is corrupt!’

  He did not deny this but sat looking at me steadily, his hands on the arms of his chair. ‘Tell me, what exactly do you plan to do? Burst into the courtroom and deny that your aunt is a witch? I doubt they would consider that an effective argument. Or pin them to their seats, perhaps, while you whisk your aunt away on a broomstick?’

  My eyes narrowed to furious slits, my face suddenly flushed with heat. ‘So, you think I should do nothing?’

  ‘I think you too will be accused of witchcraft if you are foolish enough to attempt a rescue.’

  ‘You are as bad as my father,’ I told him angrily. ‘He wouldn’t lift a finger to help her either. He just let Marcus Dent take her. I don’t know why. My father has been nothing but an enemy to me recently.’

  ‘I am not your enemy, Meg.’

  Alejandro rose from the chair near my bed and threw back the rattling curtain, once a handsome green fabric, that hung dusty and threadbare across the window.

  A pale misty light flooded the room, and I could see more clearly now that Alejandro was back in his priestly robes. The dark hem brushed his sandalled feet, the corded belt with its leather pouch hung loose about his hips. He must have helped Father Vasco at evening prayers after I had been brought up here, then come straight back to my room to sit with me. A true Christian act, tending to the sick.

  Surely now, with my aunt accused of devil-worship, and my own head as good as in the noose, Alejandro should begin to distance himself from me. Not find ways of disgracing himself too.

  It was suddenly very important to me that Alejandro did not ruin his chances of becoming a priest by associating himself with me, already a suspected witch.

  ‘Why are you here, anyway?’ I demanded, forcing a note of contempt into my voice. ‘I am well enough now and do not need to be minded like a child. Should you not be on your knees somewhere, praying?’

  He turned to stare at me, and I saw a hard colour come into his face. My temper flared, edged with fear. I wanted Alejandro out of my room. Without delay. The longer he stayed, the more dangerous it would be for him. But I knew only one thing would drive him from my side: my contempt for his calling, for the Order of Santiago.

  ‘Please leave,’ I insisted coldly, and looked pointedly at the door, more to avoid his gaze than for any other reason. ‘When I want a priest, I will send for Father Vasco. Though don’t hold your breath for that. I shall not want a priest even when they drag me out to the gallows. The only good priest is a dead one.’

  After Alejandro had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, I thrust the dagger hurriedly inside the loose straw of my mattress. Then I swung my legs out of bed and attempted to stand.

  The four walls of my room spun like dancers around a ribboned maypole and I had to sit for a while, perched on the edge of my narrow cot. Eventually, my vision cleared and the sickness in my throat abated. I groped across to the water bowl, grateful that someone had refreshed it for me.

  Splashing my face, I was surprised to find that I had been crying. Had Alejandro noticed in the darkness? I fervently hoped not.

  Straightening my crumpled gown, I rummaged in my travelling bag for a clean cap, then went to the door. I would not think about Alejandro, nor remember the look in his eyes as he left the room. I knew he must hate me for what I had said.

  None of that mattered any more. My aunt was facing the most terrible of charges. She was too weakened by her sickness to use her arts to save herself from execution, and I had failed to stop them dragging her away. I might not admire my brother for his seditious beliefs, but he was right about one thing: the only person who might possibly be able to save my aunt now was Elizabeth.

  I felt my way along the unlit corridor to the princess’s room, blocking out what I had said to Alejandro. If he hated me now, it was for the best. This thing between us would only confuse me at a time when I needed to be cold and clear and ready to fight.

  Elizabeth was waiting for me in her chamber. While Blanche dressed her by candlelight, the shutters kept closed against prying eyes, she stood in the middle of the cramped room and heard me out. Elizabeth seemed more angry that I had been hurt during the arrest than that my poor aunt had been taken sick from her bed and now faced death by hanging. She asked if I had spoken to Alejandro since returning, and when I admitted as much, she brightened.

  ‘He has been distracted since you left. Father Vasco had to reprimand him more than once for failing to cover the holy wine after consecration, so that it had to be drunk before the next service.’ Elizabeth smiled indulgently at Blanche’s giggles. ‘Don’t laugh now, the poor old man was quite incensed. There were more than three cupfuls of wine left after Mass once, and he was almost on the floor by the time he had finished them. While Alejandro had disappeared off on one of his walks.’

  ‘His walks?’

  ‘Hush,’ Blanche muttered in her mistress’s ear. ‘Hold still now, my lady.’

  Elizabeth stood patiently and sucked in her breath while Blanche laced up her gown at the back.

  When this fiddly task had been achieved, the princess exhaled sharply. ‘Alejandro has taken to walking in the old palace grounds on his own, particularly when Father Vasco has gone to bed for his afternoon siesta. I see him on the hill sometimes from my chamber window, for Sir Henry Bedingfield no longer allows us to walk out beyond the river.’ Her small mouth pursed angrily. ‘Bedingfield claims his guards have grown lax these days and there are too many of my “creatures” staying down at the Bull for his comfort.’

  Blanche snorted with indignation. ‘He should mind his tongue. My old husband Thomas is still in residence there, and he is not a “creature”!’

  I could see Elizabeth was distracted, so I waited until she was dressed before asking if she would help my aunt. But all the while my heart was hammering with nerves, my brain repeating that it was too late, too late to save her.

  ‘Please, my lady, will you write a letter to Master Dent for me, and beg him to release my aunt? She is too frail and sick to have committed these outrages they accuse her of, yet even now she may have been charged and be awaiting execution.’ I bit my lip, determined not to let my tears spill. ‘All I ask is one letter, my lady.’

  Elizabeth looked at me pityingly. She had lost h
er own mother to the axe, even if she had only been a young child at the time. She must understand something of the pain I was suffering on my aunt’s account, and certainly her small dark eyes seemed to say so.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of this injustice. But I do not think a letter from a suspected traitor and heretic will help her case.’

  Though I could not remind Elizabeth of the services my aunt had done her, since Blanche was still in the room, yet I tried to speak with my face. As far as Blanche knew, her mistress had never met my aunt. But the truth rang clear in my voice. ‘It cannot hurt, at least, and my father believes it may help. He and my brother sent me back here in the hope of a letter that might yet save her from the noose. Please, my lady, I beg of you.’

  Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded briskly. ‘Very well. Blanche, bring me pen and paper. I shall write a few lines to the magistrate in support of clemency towards this prisoner. But given that I myself am in prison, I fear it will do little good.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ I kneeled and kissed her long white hand. ‘Thank you so much.’

  She wrote in a strong, black flourish on the paper, then signed her name, Elizabeth. Pausing there, she read the letter back over twice, then dipped her pen again, ready to score the empty spaces through at the end of her letter according to her usual custom.

  But an urgent knock came at the door. ‘My lady! There is a messenger below with a letter for you. He says it comes from the Queen!’

  ‘A message from the Queen?’ Abruptly losing all her colour, Elizabeth’s hand faltered. ‘Tell him I will be down in a moment. Give him wine!’

  The princess laid aside the pen and gripped the cross at her neck. She seemed unsteady, her eyes suddenly unfocused. Blanche fussed about her with some powerful smelling salts in a small shaker, and pinched her cheeks until the blood ran there again.

  ‘Enough!’ Elizabeth waved Blanche irritably away, raising her chin. The excitement in her voice was as audible as her fear. ‘I must go down and speak with this man. And read my sister’s letter.’

  She hurried from the room with Blanche following after, clutching at Elizabeth’s train so the long skirted gown would not be dirtied on the rushes.

  Looking down at the abandoned letter, I wondered whether I should score the end spaces through for her, to prevent anyone from adding further words. Intending to do so, I picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink, but did not quite dare to mark the paper. If the princess were to return and find me bent over her letter . . .

  Yet I could not delay by waiting until the Lady Elizabeth had finished with the Queen’s messenger. That could take hours, and my aunt might even now be in her cell, waiting to be taken out to the gallows.

  Elizabeth would be furious, but I would have to face her fury if I wished to save my aunt. I checked the ink was dry, then rolled up the paper and sealed it with Elizabeth’s own seal. Then I hurried down to the kitchen and called the servant who had carried messages between me and my brother over the summer. He agreed, though only for the costly fee of a shilling, to take the letter straight over to the magistrate.

  ‘I have a horse stabled in the village,’ the servant told me. ‘Best not to take the main road though, for the guards on the gate may search me and find the letter. I’ll head across the fields and ford the stream down below.’

  I accompanied the servant as far as the old palace buildings. There I watched as the man hurried across the misty grounds, the sealed letter requesting clemency in his bag, until he was lost to sight among the trees.

  I slid down the crumbling wall of the old palace and bent my knees up to meet my face. I was shaking as though I had an ague, my face hot, my body desperately cold.

  I must have passed out.

  The next thing I knew, Alejandro de Castillo was kneeling beside me with a leather-bound flask in his hand.

  ‘Here,’ he said, tilting my head back a little. ‘Drink this and don’t try to speak. You fainted. This is a strong Spanish wine, it will restore your strength.’

  When I had recovered my senses enough to speak, I frowned up at him. ‘Why,’ I whispered hoarsely, ‘does it always have to be you? Do you follow me about, waiting for me to collapse?’

  Alejandro rocked back on his heels, watching me through narrowed eyes. ‘Good, you’re better,’ was his only response. I tried to stand but he stopped me. ‘Stay where you are for a few more minutes. Let the wine take effect. Here, have another drop. Trust me, it will help.’

  ‘Is it holy wine?’

  He grinned then. ‘Not this stuff, no. But I can bless it if you wish.’

  ‘I thought only a priest could bless wine.’

  Alejandro paused in the act of restoppering the wine flask. His smile had faded. I knew that he was remembering the insults I had thrown at him earlier. But I could see no way of making things better between us without inviting him deeper into my world of deceit and witchery. And once there, Alejandro would never be allowed to become a priest. Not when his masters realized how far he had fallen from grace.

  ‘Who was that man I saw you with?’ he asked.

  There seemed no harm in the truth. I told him briefly of the letter of clemency I had persuaded Elizabeth to write, and how the servant had agreed to carry it to the magistrate for me.

  Alejandro listened, a frown on his face. ‘And you say he was going to the village first?’

  ‘To fetch his horse, which is stabled there.’

  ‘Hmm. I see.’

  His eyes had taken on a faraway look, almost brooding in their darkness.

  ‘What?’ I demanded irritably. ‘Say whatever is on your mind. For I can see that you are dying to.’

  Alejandro straightened up and helped me back to my feet. ‘We need to get back to the lodge. Can you walk?’

  ‘Of course I can walk,’ I replied impatiently, but kept my back firmly against the wall of the old palace. ‘I’m enjoying the sunshine though. You go ahead. I’ll follow in a short while.’

  Snorting with disbelief under his breath, Alejandro picked me up and hoisted me over his shoulder as though I weighed no more than a cloth doll. Furious at this arrogant behaviour, I kicked and struggled against him, but Alejandro paid no attention, striding back towards the old lodge with me thrown across his shoulder like a cloak.

  ‘What in Hell’s name do you think you’re doing?’ I demanded, the blood burning in my cheeks. ‘How dare you? Put me down at once!’

  ‘In Hell’s name?’ he repeated, showing no signs of fatigue under my weight. ‘You’d know all about that, I imagine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you want me to put you down, you’d better turn me into a toad or something. Curse me so that I fall to the ground and froth at the mouth.’ His voice grew almost teasing. ‘What, can’t you put even the smallest spell on me? What kind of witch are you?’

  ‘Take off that cross and I’ll show you!’ I spat angrily.

  ‘My cross?’ He sounded genuinely surprised now. ‘You believe the crucifix to be some kind of talisman against your power?’

  Was there nothing this Spaniard did not know or could not guess about my powers? My frustration raged like a fire in my head while I slammed my fists against his back, hanging upside-down, my white cap fallen off, my fair hair tumbled about my face.

  ‘Softly now,’ he said, reaching the back door of the lodge. ‘I’m going to put you back on your feet. Only don’t attack me, you little termagant. There is something you ought to know first.’

  Flushed and dishevelled, I staggered backwards as he planted my feet back on the ground. I was so angry that if I had been a man I would have killed him there and then. I looked at Alejandro and willed him to laugh at me. For if he dared to laugh at me, I would run upstairs, pull my dagger out from its hiding place in the straw mattress and stab him through the heart with it.

  But he did not laugh. Indeed, his face was more sombre than I had ever seen it.

  ‘What, then?’ I demanded breathlessly, tidying my hair w
ith my fingers. ‘What is this thing you must tell me?’

  ‘The man you sent with the letter,’ he said flatly, watching my face. ‘He did not go to the village. I was up on the hill behind the old palace and I saw him cross the stream, then turn right, back towards the bridge and the gates. There was another man waiting on the track there. The servant took a letter from his bag and handed it to this other man, took payment of some kind and then walked away into the woods.’

  I stared, unable to believe what he was saying. ‘No, you are lying!’

  ‘I have no reason to lie to you, Meg.’

  ‘Then he must have been giving the letter to that man to carry for him. Perhaps his horse was faster.’

  ‘The man on the horse did not take the road to Green Hanborough. He turned left and carried on towards Woodstock village.’

  ‘No, there must be some mistake,’ I insisted, even while my blood started to run cold at the thought that I had entrusted Elizabeth’s letter to a traitor. ‘That letter was of great importance. It was written by the Lady Elizabeth herself. It must reach the magistrate today.’

  ‘Listen to me, Meg,’ he said urgently, and caught my flailing hands in his. ‘I caught a glimpse of the rider’s face as he passed below where I was standing. He did not see me, but I saw him as clearly as I see you now.’

  My mouth was dry. I watched his lips move, but I did not want to hear the words. None of it was true. ‘Who . . . who was it?’

  ‘It was your father.’

  FOURTEEN

  Eternal Flame

  I COULD NOT quite believe what Alejandro had said to me. Perhaps I was still asleep in bed and had dreamed all this: my aunt’s arrest, Elizabeth’s letter, what Alejandro claimed he had seen from the hilltop. Or perhaps I was going mad?

  ‘My father? He must have been coming here for the letter, then.’ I nodded, almost convincing myself. ‘He will have met the man on his way here, heard what he was doing and offered to carry the letter to Marcus Dent himself.’