Witchfall

by Victoria Lamb

  I stared, incredulous and a little dazed at this thought. ‘You have been . . . reading about such matters?’ I repeated. ‘In what book?’

  ‘That does not matter now. What matters is that you go into this dark magick with as much protection as possible.’ He pressed the crucifix deeper into my palm and closed my fingers about it. ‘I pray you take it, if you love me.’

  I looked up and met his eyes, hearing bitterness in his voice. ‘I do love you, Alejandro,’ I whispered.

  He glanced across at Richard, as though about to say something, then seemed to change his mind. But I saw his face tighten.

  Did he think I cared for Dee’s apprentice?

  The thought shocked me. I remembered Alejandro’s mock-jealousy the other day because I had “smiled” at Dee’s apprentice. I had dismissed it as a jest at the time. Perhaps I should have heeded his fears and been more distant with Richard. I did not wish to risk losing Alejandro over a misunderstanding.

  ‘Alejandro? What is it?’

  But he turned away, shaking his head. ‘I’ve done what I came here to do. Wear the crucifix, Meg. Don’t forget.’

  I trod swiftly after him, reaching on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.

  He hesitated, then his arms came round me, almost convulsively. ‘Meg!’

  We stood together in silence. I laid a hand on his chest and felt the unsteady beat of his heart beneath my fingers. Long might it continue beating! I did not want to turn him away tonight, any more than I truly wished to confront and do battle with the dark spirit I had accidentally conjured. But I had long since accepted that life was not perfect, and that the thing we most wished to avoid was often the thing we would have to face in the end.

  Standing like this in his arms felt like a farewell, like a parting of the ways for ever. Yet it was just possible that I would return victorious, that Richard’s grim looks were mistaken.

  Then again I had not been known for being lucky so far.

  Richard came limping towards us, a hazel wand in his hand pointed rather ominously at Alejandro. ‘I hate to interrupt this touching moment,’ he told us, ‘but I cannot cast the circle until you are clear of the woods. Your presence here disturbs the ground.’

  I shot him an irritated glance over my shoulder. ‘Richard!’

  But Alejandro’s arms were already dropping away, and he shook his head. ‘No, for once I agree with your apprentice friend. I should not be here.’ He looked at me intently. ‘I’ll be waiting for you at the house.’

  ‘This ritual may take several hours,’ Richard informed him deliberately, the hazel wand still poised in his hand as though he was about to turn Alejandro into some undesirable creature. ‘It is late now. We may not return to the house until after midnight.’

  ‘Then I shall wait until after midnight,’ Alejandro replied with grating emphasis, ‘and for as long as it takes. Just be sure she wears that about her neck,’ he added.

  Richard looked incredulously at the crucifix dangling from my hand. ‘You believe that will help? I knew you for a fool, priest. But I did not know you were also a madman.’

  I expected them to come to blows following that insult. But to my utter amazement, Alejandro did not respond, almost as though he had not heard a word.

  ‘Wear it,’ he told me softly, backing away. Then he turned and soon vanished, light-footed amongst the trees in the gathering dusk, his dark clothes fading between the trunks.

  ‘Now perhaps we can get on,’ Richard muttered, and swept the hazel wand in a long circle, beginning the incantation.

  In a ringing voice he called on the spirits of the North and South to make our intentions true, then honoured the East and West, source of the rising and setting sun, of beginnings and endings. Then Richard took a wand of blackthorn in his left hand, and walked the circumference of the circle against the direction of the sun, touching the ground at each point of the compass, his face averted from mine. I knew how he felt, for it was always in those first moments of casting the circle and beginning to walk its power that I felt the pull of the earth beneath my feet, and the great wheeling stars and planets above me, looking down with terrible dispassionate faces. It was a lonely time, the walking of the circle.

  I sat huddled before the stone altar, watching the candle flame dip and flutter. It was a foolish thing, but I felt bereft now that Alejandro had gone. I was somehow more vulnerable, as though while he was with me, nothing could touch me, no harm befall me. Now the very air was oppressive, the sky weighing down on me as dusk turned inexorably to night.

  Richard could feel it too. Raising the blackthorn wand, his slow circuit at an end, he glanced about at the too-silent woods. There was a strange tension humming between the trees, a thickening of the air about the circle he had cast.

  ‘There will be a storm tonight,’ he commented, but I knew there was more he was not saying, his face shuttered as he knelt beside me and carefully placed the blackthorn wand on the altar.

  I looped the chain over my head, allowing the silver crucifix to settle on my chest. I saw Richard looking at it, and pulled a face. ‘It does no harm. Think what you like. Alejandro is my betrothed and he has asked me to wear this.’

  ‘I see nothing but darkness ahead for both of you.’ I had been right to think him reluctant to speak. The words seemed dragged from him, and he shrugged when I turned on him angrily. ‘Peace, girl, I shall not speak against your beloved again. Well, not tonight anyway. You do yourself no good by this. Calm yourself and think of the ritual ahead.’

  I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him. He was right, much as I disliked the way he spoke to me as though I was a child. Alejandro’s visit had shaken me, brought heat and fire back into my body. I could not call the spirit like this, flushed and confused, lost to my true self. Somehow I needed to return to the hollow state I had reached earlier, my fingertips tingling with power, my mind drifting like an empty boat on a river.

  His eyes very dark, Richard looked about the edges of the circle. Night had drawn in while we were talking. He counted seven twigs from a tied bundle he had brought in his pack. These he set before the altar, then looked at me sideways. ‘Kindle the fire, Meg.’

  I licked my lips, suddenly afraid. The ritual was beginning. Like a whisper, fire licked tentatively along one of the twigs, then all seven were alight.

  He set a small iron crucible atop the flames, waited until it was ticking with heat, then sprinkled a few pinches of dark powder inside it. The powder began to smoke at once, its fumes thick and black, almost overwhelming me as I knelt alongside.

  ‘It is time. Stay within the circle, Meg. Do not break the circle by so much as one step, whatever happens,’ he whispered urgently, not looking at me but at the smoking crucible. ‘For the god of the place,’ he muttered, and poured a thick red liquid from the horn-cup across the altar stone, thick as blood and as acrid-smelling, waiting as it trickled darkly into the earth below. ‘Genius loci.’

  This done, Richard drew a short, black-handled dagger from his belt and sketched the six-fold sign in the smoky air, then passed the blade through the flames as many times.

  ‘Now!’

  I stood and let my head fall back, staring up at the stars just starting to prick the night sky. My arms spread wide, I called aloud on the powers to guide me, on the spirit of my aunt to look down kindly on me, on Hecate herself to strengthen my work that night.

  I unwound the white charm-stone from about my wrist and held it up, using whatever power it possessed to summon the spirit.

  ‘By these tokens, by these offerings, by the blood, by the fire, by the smoke, by the stone, by the six-fold sign and by this charm, I bid thee come to us, unquiet spirit!’ I waited, listening to the silence of the night, the crackling of the fire, then called again. My belly turned to ice, my veins running cold, as I saw the darkness thicken about us, drawing towards our circle. ‘Shadow creature from the otherworld, heed my call and appear before us as you were in life. I conjure thee, appea
r!’

  A mass began to form and grow in the shadows, a few feet beyond the invisible confines of the circle. The bulky figure of a man hunched over in sickness, his legs swollen, his vast body riddled with pain. A bearded face glimmered through the darkness, skin flushed and mottled, a high forehead shining in the flickering light from the fire.

  The spirit’s malevolent gaze moved around the circle until it came to rest on me.

  I started in shock, almost dropping the charm-stone. His were the same dark narrow eyes I knew from the face of the Lady Elizabeth, seething now with rage and contempt.

  ‘Who dares summon me?’

  ‘It is Meg Lytton who summons you!’ I cried, my voice cracked with the effort of standing unmoved by that glare. ‘What is your name, spirit?’

  The bearded mouth smiled cruelly. ‘Henry Tudor is my name.’

  My tongue was dry, sticking to the roof of my mouth. The little white charm-stone seemed to be growing steadily heavier in my hands; it was all I could do to keep it lifted towards him.

  There was a fog in my mind. Had the spirit infected me? I struggled to speak, fumbling over the words I had prepared.

  ‘This is no longer your place, Henry Tudor. Your time has come to depart this earth and return to the world of shadows whence you came.’ The charm-stone was now as heavy as a rock; my wrists strained and trembled under its weight. ‘Begone, spirit!’

  The thin lips parted again. The spirit-king laughed. The sound was like dead leaves blowing along a desolate track at dusk.

  Despair filled me. I had no power over this man. He was Henry Tudor, King of England. His was a great royal dynasty. His name glittered across the world’s oceans, his power immense beyond measure. I was nothing before him. A girl in a wood, crumbling under the weight of her own feeble spell. Soon he would lift his hand and strike me down, and I would deserve my death, sinking without a murmur into the nameless oblivion that was my destiny.

  Someone else was speaking in the glowing dark. A low voice chanting. I looked down and saw a figure hunched over the smouldering fire, passing the thin knotted cord through the smoke, then looping it between his fingers, muttering, ‘By this third knot, I close thy eyes! By this fourth knot, I strip thee of thy power! By this fifth knot, I name thee a dead King! By this sixth knot, I open the gates of death!’

  In my fear, I had forgotten Richard. I was not alone in the circle; I was not alone in the spell.

  He faltered momentarily in his chant though, the spirit of Henry Tudor snarling at him from beyond the circle, ‘Traitor! Dost not know me for thy King? Thou shalt find thy death in this treachery, conjuror!’

  Not looking round, Richard continued more strongly, a steely note in his voice, fingering each knot with strong deliberation, ‘By this seventh knot, I bid thee turn about! By this eighth knot, I call on angels to light the way! By this ninth knot, I conjure thee depart!’

  A terrible roaring filled the wood, rising in intensity, almost deafening. I longed to cover my ears yet had to keep holding the charm-stone aloft, for it was my only shield against his fury. The dead King seemed to change, blurring and growing, transforming back into the vile shadow creature I had first seen at Hampton Court. His glittering eyes stared down at me through the darkness, the only human thing left about him. Then the hovering cloud of his body began to spin, faster and faster, a vast whirlpool of black smoke. The trees swayed and bent before it like a great wind, their yellow leaves stripped and sucked into the void.

  The skies opened above us and rain hammered down like the violent deluge which took the Ark. I was soaked within seconds, my wet gown clinging to my skin, my teeth chattering. The charm-stone was heavy beyond human endurance; I could not hold it aloft any longer. It was like the weight of a mountain on my chest, cracking my spine, crushing me to death.

  My knees buckled under the strain of resisting him. I staggered a few steps forward, my arms dropping to my sides, drawn by those eyes, the vicious stare, the black wind sucking at my gown, my hair. Even the silver crucifix and chain about my neck had lifted like a dowsing stick, pointing at the shadow-king, almost dragging me towards him.

  ‘Don’t break the circle, Meg!’ Richard cried in alarm, dropping the knotted cord and leaping to his feet. His hand clutched for and missed my shoulder.

  There was a blinding flash of light, then I fell into darkness.

  My eyes focused on chill daylight, rough grey stone under my feet, a curious sensation of height. When my head finally stopped spinning and I was able to raise it, I looked about myself. A mist surrounded me, its thick dew wetting my skin. As I stared, the mist rolled away, showing me damp hillsides in the distance, a barren ravine, gnarled and twisted trees far below.

  From the winds blowing my hair, I knew at once where I was. Back in my vision, on top of the tower. I heard the rush of air about my ears, the sound of wingbeats, then a hawk screamed furiously above me.

  Which meant . . .

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the man with the axe in his hand. Only it was not Marcus Dent this time. It was the shadow-king, half-smoke, half-man, his bearded, heavy-jowled face glaring down at me from the heart of darkness.

  The King raised his axe. ‘Kneel for thy death, witch!’

  I fumbled for a spell that would send me back to the woodland circle, back to Richard, to the world of the living. But my mouth had been sealed by some magickal charm, and I could make no sound, only shake my head. I tried to raise my hand to bind my attacker with a gesture, then found my wrists had been sewn to my sides with invisible thread, a mischievous spell I had used on my nurse as a child, only to be threatened with a whipping by my aunt if I ever showed off my power like that again.

  So I stood, effectively gagged and bound, before the gloating fury of the dead King.

  ‘You see how weak you are, witch?’ The spirit-voice hissed in my ear as the cloud rolled over me, enveloping me in its terrible clammy darkness. ‘You are nothing. You dared to summon me? I do not answer to a woman. No, nor to any man either. I am Henry Tudor, King of England.’

  How could any spirit have such power over the living? I did not understand how it was possible. It seemed to break all the rules my aunt had ever taught me about the boundaries between worlds.

  Yet what could I do? My neck was bare, my hair blown to one side by the wind so the fragile nape of my neck was exposed – almost as though I was being prepared to meet the axe.

  But I refused to die. Not here, not today.

  I conjure you, depart!

  I thought my spell at him instead, thinking so furiously it felt as though my head would burst with the effort.

  You are a spirit, not true flesh. By the breath in my living body, by the blood in my living veins, I conjure you – depart!

  Untouched by my silent spell, the shadow-king snarled at me, ‘Your magick cannot touch me, witch. I shall have your head this night. Then I shall return to my daughter’s court and have hers too, for she is but a woman and weak-minded. I shall consume her heart and rule through her, and this disobedient land shall come to suffer such a burning and a darkness as it has never known before.’

  The triumphant power of his voice was like a hand, thrusting me to my knees. My hands bound by his spell, my mouth sealed, I found myself kneeling on the cold top of the tower, unable to save myself. Was this real or merely a nightmare? If I was killed here in my vision, would I die back there in the woods? It felt real enough. The air was cold on my face, the stone hard under my knees, and my heart was beating so loudly . . .

  I looked up in sudden terror as his axe swung. The sun glinted evilly off the blade, dazzling me, the whole world a blur of shadow and light, with death waiting for me beyond it.

  Too late I realized the face behind the axe had changed. The shadow-king had vanished, and Marcus Dent stood in his place.

  ‘This was always your destiny, Meg,’ he cried, his voice ringing with triumph. His scarred face turned towards me, one sharp blue eye fixed on my face, the other a du
ll and empty socket. ‘Now die!’

  The axe came down before I had a chance to move. The whole world shuddered sideways, then turned black.

  SEVENTEEN

  Dead Witch

  My body was soaring like a bird’s, flying above dark woods. Below, I could see the trees in incredible detail, each reddish leaf glinting in starlight under heavy rain. It looked as though the treetops were bristling with jewels. The rain fell about me, wet pinpoints like hundreds of thousands of thin silver pins hurtling past my body. Yet I was not wet, and the bright narrow rain passed straight through me as though I was not there.

  I looked down, catching sudden movement between the trees on the dark ground. I was following someone who was running below. An odd limping figure, crashing noisily through the woods, carrying a burden in his arms: it looked at first like a dead swan, her long graceful neck dangling back over his arm, her body limp and lifeless.

  Then the man running came clear of the trees, staggering across the waterlogged grass under the downpour, and I saw at last what he was carrying. No swan, but a dead girl.

  As he approached the entrance to the great house, the studded door was flung open and Alejandro ran out into the rain, fully dressed as I had last seen him, his head bare, but with a sword hanging from his belt.

  ‘Meg!’ he cried out, seeing my limp body in Richard’s arms. ‘Madre di Dios, what have you done to her?’

  ‘She stepped out of the circle,’ Richard gasped, shouldering his way past Alejandro into the house.

  Suddenly I was inside too, floating just below the rafters, looking down at them in the Great Hall. The fire was dying, a soft glowing light that lit up their faces as Richard carried me to the table and lay me down there as gently as though I had been alive. The old hound jumped up from the hearth and began to bark, no doubt sensing something was badly wrong.

  ‘Is she . . .? Dios mio!’ Alejandro took my wrist and felt for a pulse there, then put his fingers to the side of my throat. I had never seen him look so sick and haggard. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’