by Jo Beverley
Rachel licked her lips. “The earl has kissed me.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“The last two times, he was stopped. . . . No, we were stopped by local people interrupting. The children might have been chance, but Mistress Hatcher . . . if we’d not been stopped. . . .”
Her father’s brows rose. “You think that perhaps the people here have been preserving your, let us say, eligibility.”
Rachel’s face was burning. “Yes.”
“While Lord Morden was trying to remove it in order to force you to the altar. What a great deal goes on in a simple country village, to be sure. Perhaps I will write a paper on the subject. But perhaps the Bride is chosen, however that is done, long before Easter.”
“I suspect I was, Father. I do wonder why.”
At least the days between Easter and Ascension passed quickly, for Rachel was harried with preparations for her role. There were a number of chants to learn, ones that she would have picked up naturally if she had lived here all her life, but which she had to learn by rote. This was particularly difficult as many of them were gibberish.
“Miggeth, hibby, degeth ru,” she repeated to Mrs. Hatcher one day as the housekeeper helped her cut out the bright green fabric for her Dym’s Bride robe.
“Degeleth ru,” the woman corrected.
“But what does it mean?” Rachel demanded.
“No one knows, miss.”
“Then what does it matter?” Rachel complained, her patience very thin.
“Maybe it don’t.”
Rachel looked at the woman across the big kitchen table and asked the question she’d avoided. “Do you think this is to be a real Dym’s Night? Given the change in the calendar?”
The woman looked up with an anxious crease above her eyes. “None knows, miss, and that’s the truth. But we must be prepared.”
“And if it is, what will happen?”
“Things’ll be better.”
“What will happen to me?”
“To you, miss?” The housekeeper tried to sound puzzled, but her eyes had shifted. When she said, “No doubt you’ll wed within the year,” Rachel tried to take that to mean that at least she wouldn’t end up in the bonfire.
Fears were building, however, and that night, lying in her bed in darkness, Rachel opened her mind to the suspicion that had been growing there.
Had she been picked to be Dym’s Bride because no other woman in the parish would take the role this year? Whatever the truth about Meggie Brewstock, the people here were still ill at ease about her fate a century later.
Rachel was tempted to flee the area until after May the first, perhaps forever.
They lived in a modern age, however.
Demons didn’t exist.
Except a certain sort of man who could tear a woman’s heart in two.
But he was in London, seeking a bride. Damn him.
The next day, the green gown was mostly finished and Rachel tried it on. As it settled on her, she shivered, but only because it felt more like a nightgown than a day one. It wasn’t made for hoops, petticoats or stays, and hung against her skin with only her thin shift as barrier.
“It’s hardly decent,” she muttered.
“That color’s right pretty on you, miss,” said Mrs. Hatcher. “Now for the neckline.” The housekeeper worked her shears, and before Rachel realized, she’d cut away a great deal of the bodice.
Rachel ran in front of the mirror and gasped. “Mrs. Hatcher, that’s far too low! I’ll have to fill it in with lace.”
“Nay, miss, it’s no lower than your best silk.”
“But when I wear that, I wear stays! And a stomacher.” Her nipples were poking up the cloth. “I look wicked.”
“Nay, miss. You look right fetching, and what’s the harm in looking your best one night in your life? Your man’ll like it.”
“I have no man.”
“Then you will have. The Bride always marries within the year.”
Another superstition about to proved hollow, thought Rachel bitterly. Oh, why didn’t Lord Morden come back to the Abbey with a bride and get it over with?
Rachel fretted her way toward Walpurgis Night, but when the time came, she found her nerves in better state that she had expected. This was in part because the waiting was over, but also because Sir George and Mr. Home-Nowlan had come over to dine before accompanying her and her father up to Dymons Hill. They were both such ordinary, hearty gentlemen. With such attendants, nothing could go amiss.
She must have still looked anxious, however, for Sir George patted her arm. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Proudfoot. I’ve been at these affairs, as you know. There’s no harm to them, none at all, but just in case, Hume-Nowlan and I each have a pistol in a pocket.”
That did help. “Thank you, Sir George. But don’t be too quick to react, please. I expect matters to be boisterous and won’t take offense.”
“Good girl. Good girl.”
Rachel went up to her room and changed into her green dress. She’d tried it on every day, attempting to get used to it, but it still felt odd.
The color did suit her, though. That was true.
She was supposed to wear her hair loose, so she took out the pins and brushed it, feeling its looseness was more indecency. Her hair generally went from its knot on the top of her head to the plaits she wore for sleep. Hanging down to her waist, it looked wild in the candlelight.
Giving thanks for its thickness, she draped it in front as well as behind so that it veiled her chest.
When she returned below stairs, she saw Sir George’s eyes widen in honest admiration and felt both self-conscious and pleased. She couldn’t help wishing that a certain other gentleman was here to see her in this wanton deshabille.
Then they heard the drums and pipes of the band coming down the street. The tune seemed primitive to Rachel and she shivered even as her toe tapped to the insistent beat. As she had been warned to expect, the noise stopped outside the vicarage and there was a great cry of, “The Bride! The Bride!”
Heart thudding, Rachel sucked in a deep breath and walked out to be greeted by a thunderous cheer.
“Good Lord,” Rachel said to her father, “how many people are there here?”
“All the village, and half the area besides, from the look of it.”
Indeed, just counting the lanterns that made a river of light down the road, there must have been hundreds. Rachel saw children, though, and even babes in arms, and that eased her fears. Would anyone bring a child to a an evil event?
Some young women ran forward and crowned Rachel with flowers, tossing a chain of fragrant blooms around her neck. Then, laughing excitedly, they pulled her out to the front of the procession.
A roaring beast leapt at her.
Rachel screamed, then realized it was only the mummer’s horse. As her panicked heart steadied, she saw other people in traditional masks and disguises and the morris dancers wearing their bells. All innocent country pastimes.
She checked to see that her father, Sir George, and Mr. Home-Nowlan were close by and then set to lead the way to Dymons Hill.
It wasn’t hard to find, for it was already crowned with a beacon fire.
For weeks, the atmosphere had been tense, but now it was infectiously merry. The music kept up the lively beat, and the morris dancers were dancing their way along the road, bells jingling, sticks clacking. Rachel found herself walking in rhythm and keeping the beat with her hands. She grinned at her father, and he twinkled back.
As they followed the path across the field, Rachel struggled to block all memory of the Earl of Morden and their first kiss here. She almost succeeded.
She found the climb up the hill not as hard as she’d feared, but kept a careful eye to be sure her father was not left behind. Once on top of the hill, the magnificence caught her.
It was just high enough to give the illusion that one could see forever, and the lanterns behind were still winding along. Back in the villa
ge every house was lit, and nearby she could she the big houses—Walberton Grange and Morden Abbey—blazing from every window. Even the church was fully lit.
She turned to Sir George. “I didn’t know about the lights.”
“Have to greet Waldborg properly,” he said cheerfully. “How else would he know where to visit?”
“This is done every year?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know if he visits?”
“By the good fortune that comes, of course.”
“And if bad fortune visits?”
He winked. “Then perhaps a candle went out.”
“I presume everyone has left someone at home to tend the lights?”
“Of course. Mostly the elderly, who have no taste for the climb and the night air. And it’s more to try to guard against fire, my dear. All those candles left burning.” His practical common-sense robbed the occasion of any lingering shadows.
Even with the bonfire, there was a good deal of space on the top of the hill, but there still wasn’t room for all. Rachel saw the lights gather at the base of the hill as people settled to their revels down there.
Or on guard? Was that where the third earl had been hit on the head to prevent him interfering in Meggie’s death?
Stop it. You’ll drive yourself mad if you think that way.
The musicians changed their rhythm to more ordinary country dances, and people took partners. Rachel allowed Sir George to lead her into the patterns, delighted by it all. She’d never attended an open air dance, or one lit by a fire. To do so on top of a hill amid a lamp-lit countryside was magical indeed. She danced next with Mr. Home-Nowlan, and then with her father, but after that she danced with everyone. There was familiarity, yes, but no improper behavior, even though flasks and bottles were circulating.
Despite the exercise of the dancing, Rachel refused all drink. She’d no intention of being made drunk or worse. She no longer had any fears of murder, and certainly none about demons, but she’d guard her virtue. After having resisted the Earl of Morden, she had no mind to be ruined by a local farm lad.
Morden pulled up his steaming horse in the stables of the Abbey. He was not surprised to find the place ablaze with light—he knew the local customs. He was furious, however, to find the stables totally deserted.
In the kitchen he found his three oldest retainers toasting themselves by the fire. Even though two were retired, he sent one to keep an eye on the stables and commanded the other two to patrol the house to make sure there was no danger of fire from the many lamps and candles.
Damn Waldborg and all to do with him!
He downed a mug of porter then saddled a fresh horse. He’d have been here hours ago if the other one hadn’t cast a shoe. As it was, it was close to midnight, and this was Dym’s Night.
He’d scoffed at all these matters for years and teased Rachel for her concerns, but when he’d received his steward’s report, and it had contained the news that the vicar’s daughter was to be Dym’s Bride, he’d been flooded with alarm.
The people here would never choose an outsider for such an important role without reason. Perhaps the reason was that none of the local girls was willing to risk Meggie Brewstock’s fate. It fact, he remembered Nan saying that she was glad Cattie was too young to be in danger.
In danger.
Plague take it, why hadn’t he forced the issue of marriage, or seduction even, so Rachel wouldn’t have been in danger either? As he thundered out of the stables on a new horse, he knew why. Because Rachel had resisted and he’d been too damned proud to woo.
He’d expected the vicar’s daughter to accept the tarnished honor he offered her without cavil. When she hadn’t he’d tried to wash his hands of her. Three times. Each time, the painted London beauties had appeared less and less appealing and he had wanted only Rachel Proudfoot with her strong chin and firm standards.
Devil only knew why.
The blasted woman would try and reform him. She’d want him to stay here in the wilds of Suffolk breeding sheep and draining land. She’d limit his drinking to a glass or two of wine at dinner, and his gaming to a hand of whist for penny points....
But he couldn’t live without her.
As he emerged from a coppice, Dymons Hill filled his view, looking like a scene from hell, with the great fire leaping, showering the black sky with golden spangles. On the top, tiny figures cavorted by firelight. At the base, hundreds danced by the light of their lanterns. ‘Struth, the whole parish must be here.
He raced forward recklessly through the dark, pulling up at the edge of the crowd.
“The earl!” someone shouted, but it was greeting not alarm. “May Waldborg come to ye, milord!”
“And to you,” Morden muttered, dismounting and thrusting his reins into the hand of a lad. “Hold him a while. I want to go up.”
“Aye, milord,” the lad said willingly. “You don’t want to miss a real Dym’s Night!”
Morden took the steep path at a run.
Rachel was lost in the dancing when suddenly the music changed. She half moved to choose another partner, then realized that the new tune wasn’t dancing music. It was that pounding, haunting music that had greeted her at her door.
Someone nearby nudged her. “The chants, miss. It’s time for the chants.”
Feeling rather foolish, Rachel began the first of the chants she’d learned. “Refter coma, refter coma, herilk dimi moder droma. ... “It was immediately picked up by all the women so that she didn’t have to struggle anymore. She saw women with young girls coaching them to follow the words.
Coaching future Demon’s Brides? Yes. This was a passing on of the chants. Rachel glanced at her father and smiled. He was close to the firelight, scribbling his observations.
She began the next chant, and again the women joined in, the drums beating to the rhythm, the earth vibrating with it, too.
The earth vibrating?
It was merely the men stamping their feet in rhythm.
Now the women and girls held hands, making a big circle, dance-stepping as they chanted. Rachel had a grannie by one hand and a five-year-old by the other. All innocent, all simply tradition.
But back in 1668, Meggie Brewstock had led these chants and danced this dance.
At what point had the pattern been broken?
How had she ended up in the flames?
The circle suddenly stopped turning, leaving Rachel standing alone.
A safe distance from the fire, thank heaven.
Three people came forward: two older women and a man bearing a box. She recognized the man as Michael Bladwick, a prosperous local farmer, and one who was very interested in new scientific ideas.
He opened the old carved box to present a knife. “As keeper of the blade,” he said prosaically, perhaps a bit embarrassed by his task, “I give it unsullied to the Bride.”
“Take it, dear,” said one of the women--Sally Fuller, the innkeeper’s wife, known far and wide for common sense and making tough bargains.
Rachel picked up the knife, astonished by how old it seemed. She hoped she’d have an opportunity to study it by daylight. The thick, glimmering blade was covered with worn-down runes, and the hilt was made of pale, carved stone. As Rachel grasped it, the music pounded in her ears and her blood matched the beat.
“Cut yourself, dear,” said the other woman—Mary Heyman, the carter’s widow, and the most devout member of the parish. She was neat as a pin tonight in cap, hat, and cloak, and it was bizarre to see her in the midst of this.
“Just a little nick,” she cautioned. “I’m sure Mr. Bladwick has the blade well-sharpened, and we don’t want you to do yourself an injury.”
Rachel almost giggled at the contrast between this and her imaginings. Really, she had been absurd. Wincing, she applied the blade to the ball of her thumb. It was sharp, and she didn’t even feel the sting before blood beaded.
“That’s the way of it,” said Mistress Heyman cheerfully. She called
out, “She’s blooded and not a moment’s hesitation!”
There was a great cheer.
Grinning as if she had done something marvelous, Rachel smeared the blood on the blade. She remembered a certain lewd comment about blood and blades and thanked heaven that a fiery night wouldn’t show blushes. “Now what?” she asked.
The two women knelt and their four hands seemed to mark a place, though there was nothing to be seen but the scrubby short grass. “Plunge the knife here, dearie,” said Mistress Fuller. “Don’t hesitate. You won’t harm it.”
Rachel knelt too. Despite the woman’s words, she was worried about driving the ancient blade into what appeared to be hard earth over rock.
“Just imagine it’s a big, thick cheese,” said Mary Heyman, “and stick it in there, dear.”
The music pounded on but the people were still and silent as they waited for her to complete the rite. Rachel took a deep breath and thrust the blade into the hill. It sank in as if indeed cutting into cheese and she laughed with relief. Then a heat rippled up the knife. It ran into her hands, along her arms, through her body. . . .
She tried to pull back, but the two women pushed her down.
“Just lie a moment,” she heard someone say, but far far away.
Then she heard a woman cry out.
Rachel would have cried out herself if she’d had voice to do so. She was sucked down onto the earth, and her body was being invaded by something, something rushing up and into her with elemental force.
Flooding her. Expanding her . . .
Even in her terror she was struck with wonder.
Then it was gone.
She was torn from the earth screaming, as if being torn in two. She was being dragged and she writhed in a grip of steel.
The fire!
She was being dragged to the fire!
Hands grabbed for her arms, her gown, trying to hold her back, trying to save her, but she was forced on. . . .
A shot? Was that a shot?
Then she realized she was being dragged toward darkness not fire. Down the hill now, fighting through demons, through hands grabbing, hands holding.