I have a great respect for Mama. I wasn’t sure she liked me at first, but I soon came to realize her feelings for me were all about protecting her son. Once she realized I wasn’t a danger to Corwen, she accepted me into the family. She hid a great deal behind her formal façade, and her position in local society kept her well-informed.
“I hear Dorothea Kaye is engaged to be married.” Mama delivered the news with one eyebrow raised. She had, at one time or another, pushed each one of her sons toward the divine Miss Kaye whose looks were incomparable. Sadly, her intellect didn’t match them.
“I wish her very happy,” Corwen said. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Joshua Stanhope.”
“The magistrate?” Corwen asked.
Mama nodded.
“He’s twice her age,” Lily said. “But I begin to see how our two rowankind came under suspicion. It would only take a word in the right ear.”
“Or wrong ear in this case,” I said.
“Quite,” Mama said.
That small amount of conversation seemed to have used up her supply of news, and she lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey. We pondered the likelihood of more of the mill’s rowankind being targeted as the coach rumbled its way into Barnsley via twisty, narrow roads and through the villages of Cawthorne and Barugh. The Fae were right; unless the law changed, the rowankind would never be safe.
From Redbrook, we climbed the long hill to the outskirts of town and from there down past St. Mary’s Church to Market Hill. It being a Friday there were a few market stalls, but the main market day was Wednesday, so the town was less busy than on my previous visit. A pall of smoke hung in the air from the wire-drawing workshops, and the stone buildings were black with sooty deposits.
The Mysterium office was little more than a single room above a draper’s shop at the bottom of New Street. It being a pleasantly dry, crisp morning, Corwen, Lily, and I alighted at the bottom of Market Hill and left Mallinson to see Mama safely to and from the milliner in the coach while we walked to New Street, a distance of less than a quarter mile. When we arrived, the office was empty except for a young clerk who invited us to wait.
There was little of interest in there: a desk, a bookcase in want of books, and four chairs.
The boy scratched away at a ledger with a quill, keeping his head down and not looking at us.
After a few minutes the silence got to him. “Have you heard the news from Sheffield?”
“About the hangings yesterday?” Corwen asked.
“Indirectly. The gallows was set afire in the middle of the night, but the wood was not consumed. This morning the fire still burns as high as ever.” He lowered his voice. “They say it’s witchcraft, but no one knows who to blame.”
It seemed likely the Fae had heard about the hangings. If so, they were damned lucky that the whole of Sheffield hadn’t gone up in flames.
We waited another ten minutes.
“Could you tell us how long Mr. Pomeroy will be?” Lily asked.
The young clerk cleared his throat, then admitted that Mr. Pomeroy was partaking of a beefsteak breakfast at the Market Tavern, but since we had been waiting long enough, he would run and inform him he had visitors.
The Market Tavern was not a salubrious hostelry, so Corwen tipped the boy two shillings to fetch Mr. Pomeroy at his earliest convenience and then to stay and have breakfast himself because our business was for Mr. Pomeroy alone. The lad didn’t need telling twice.
We shuffled uncomfortably on our hard wooden chairs.
I got up, paced the office, and then stopped by the desk, opening one of the ledgers. It was a list of cases handled by the Barnsley office going back five years, so mostly before Mr. Pomeroy’s appointment. Lying loose in the front of the ledger was a letter, or rather a printed circular which must have been sent to every Mysterium office in the land instructing officers to be vigilant not only for regular witchcraft, but for magics of another and possibly more subtle kind in respect of those folk commonly referred to as rowankind. It was signed beneath the print in blue ink by J. H. Leigh, Director.
“So the Mysterium has appointed a new director, and he’s not called Walsingham,” I said.
“Is that a good thing?” Lily asked.
“It’s good there isn’t a Walsingham involved in Mysterium business,” I said, “but it doesn’t tell us if another Walsingham has been appointed as an agent reporting directly to the king.”
I glanced at the ledger, checking the more recent incidents written in a neat hand. These I presumed were Pomeroy’s entries. I checked back to last year, to see what he’d written about the report of rowankind using magic at the mill. He’d noted the warrant issued in Sheffield, the name of the sergeant in charge of the redcoats, and a list of the rowankind so charged, but on the incident itself, all he’d reported was that the rowankind concerned had run off into the woods close to the mill and had left no tracks to follow. He hadn’t noted the involvement of the Fae or the screen of fire, an illusion David had created to protect the fleeing rowankind from pursuit. No wonder it hadn’t caused a stir. I closed the ledger quietly when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and by the time Pomeroy arrived, I was back in my chair looking bored.
“Miss Deverell!” Pomeroy only had eyes for Lily. “If I’d realized it was you, I wouldn’t have insisted on finishing my breakfast.” He bowed over her hand and then, in turn, to us.
“Don’t blame your clerk,” Corwen said. “We didn’t give him our names. I trust you left him behind to enjoy his breakfast.”
“I did. What can I do for you?”
Corwen took the letter from his pocket and tapped the paper onto the palm of his free hand as if still in two minds whether to entrust it to Pomeroy.
Lily stood and slipped her hand through the crook of Pomeroy’s elbow. The gesture wasn’t lost on Corwen. “George, we need a favor and we need you not to ask why.”
“Oh, now you have me thoroughly intrigued.”
Corwen made up his mind. “Yesterday you advised us that for a letter to reach the king, we should address it via Sir Stephen Cotterell, the Clerk to the Privy Council.”
“As far as I’m aware.”
“It’s vital the information in this letter reaches His Majesty personally, so we hope to prevail upon you to send it to Sir Stephen via your grandfather. Who would deny an earl access to the king?”
I saw a frown knit itself briefly across Pomeroy’s forehead.
“We can promise you that what it contains will not harm His Majesty in any way,” I said. “Nor will it harm your grandfather as the bearer. However, if you can contrive to keep our name out of it, we would be very grateful. I’m sure you would not wish any questions concerning the use of magic, rowankind magic that is, to be directed to Lily’s family.”
“Indeed, I would not, but I’m not sure that will convince my grandfather.”
I could see Corwen was thinking about how much to tell him.
“It’s a chance to protect the rowankind,” Lily said. “The six rowankind who were hanged yesterday may only be the start of it. Do we know how many rowankind have been condemned throughout the rest of the country?”
Pomeroy shook his head.
“Your grandfather is interested in the extent of magic, I presume?” I asked.
“He is.”
“You can promise him that when it is safe to do so, we’ll give him testimony and answer any questions he might have. In the meantime, for the sake of the realm, this letter must reach the king.”
“Only on condition I get an explanation.”
“Oh, George,” Lily squeezed his arm. “To know what we know and not to tell the Mysterium might put you in danger.”
“And to tell the Mysterium would put all of us, including Lily, in danger,” I added.
“In fact, Lily would be in the most dan
ger,” Corwen said. “Ross and I can retreat to a place where we can’t be found, but unless Lily were to leave her family and the mill, she would be here for the Mysterium to find and question.” He put extra emphasis on the word, question, so Pomeroy was in no doubt Lily might be in physical danger from such a process.
“The Mysterium wouldn’t—” Pomeroy began.
“I’m afraid they would,” I said.
“If your grandfather is collecting information on how the Mysterium conducts its business,” Corwen said, “tell him to ask the Mysterium about a ship called the Guillaume Tell and the prisoners taken to sea.”
“The Guillaume Tell?”
Corwen nodded. “Captured from the French and intended to be refitted for Navy use, but before she was commissioned, the Admiralty lent her to the Mysterium as a prison ship. Ask yourself what kind of prisoners the Mysterium might have.”
George Pomeroy held out his hand. “I’ll see your letter gets to my grandfather with your request for delivery.”
“It might be better if you didn’t commit what we told you to writing,” Corwen said.
“I have some business in the capital, and I have to report in person to the Mysterium headquarters every three months. I’ll deliver your letter to Grandfather myself, and if he’s interested, I’ll pay a visit to the Admiralty to inquire about the Guillaume Tell.”
Corwen nodded and shook his hand.
“Oh, George, I told them they could trust you. Thank you.” Lily gave his arm one final squeeze and then let go.
I had one more thought as we were leaving the office. “Mr. Pomeroy, does the name Walsingham mean anything to you?”
“He was the head of the Mysterium when I was appointed.”
“Did you meet him?”
“I did. He was younger than I expected, close to my own age. He died suddenly. I haven’t met Mr. Leigh yet. He was only appointed at the beginning of January.”
“You haven’t heard of anyone else called Walsingham, an older man?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“If you do, would you mind telling Lily, so she can get word to us?”
“Certainly, as long as it doesn’t conflict with my duties.”
“Of course, we wouldn’t expect that.”
We took polite leave and nodded to the young clerk as we passed him on the stairs.
“I hope we did the right thing,” Corwen muttered to me as we walked back from New Street toward Market Hill.
I sighed. So did I.
* * *
On the way back to Denby House we asked Mallinson to take the steep route down Miller Hill to Denby Dike Side to the house of Sam Hardcastle. Jem Richards having been a lodger, the hanging represented a double tragedy visited on one household.
Mallinson pulled up the coach a hundred yards short of the stone terrace where the Hardcastle family lived. It was easy to see which house it was; shutters had been nailed closed across the windows, but the front door stood ajar as if there might be a visitor.
“Should we all go?” Mama said. “We don’t want to overwhelm the poor woman. Losing a husband is so . . . ”
“I think she would like to know that the whole family is here to pay respects,” Lily said. “We don’t have to stay long. We must tell her we’ll look after her and the children and arrange for the bodies to be brought back.”
“Can we?” Mama asked. “Get the bodies, I mean.”
“George has requested it,” Lily said. “At least they’ll get a proper burial.”
“Not in the churchyard, though.”
Rowankind couldn’t be buried in the hallowed ground of any churchyard, just as they could neither be christened nor married in the sight of God, but on the hill above the village was a small walled cemetery, always kept neatly, where the rowankind buried their own.
Mrs. Hardcastle had company. I was pleased to see the villagers had rallied round. The children, four of them, all under five years old, Lily had said, were nowhere to be seen, so probably another neighbor had taken them out of the doom-laden atmosphere. Three mature ladies attended Mrs. Hardcastle. One looked like an older version, and I took her to be Mrs. Hardcastle’s mother or older sister. Mrs. Hardcastle herself sat in a chair by the fire, her hair covered by a modest mourning cap made of muslin with a yellowing lace trim. Around her shoulders she had a black shawl. I doubted anyone could afford mourning clothes on a millworker’s wage, but the neighbors had probably helped.
The new-made widow started to rise as we entered, but Mama waved her back into her seat and we let the senior one among us say what was necessary to pay our respects. Lily pushed a small purse into Mrs. Hardcastle’s hands. As we left, the older lady who, indeed, proved to be Mrs. Hardcastle’s mother followed us to the door.
“Sam and Jem . . . ” she said. “They were good men even if they were rowankind. How could this have happened?”
Corwen took her hand. “It shouldn’t have happened. It’s a great injustice. We mustn’t let it happen again.”
* * *
Corwen and I didn’t stay for the funerals, returning to the Old Maizy Forest the following morning to our little cottage and to Corwen’s troubled brother. David’s boundary had held. Though we felt its presence, we could cross it.
Freddie listened to our news from home, though whether he understood it all was doubtful. He whined when Corwen told him Lily was enamored of a Mysterium officer, so at least something got through to his lupine mind.
Corwen hoped a quiet winter would ease Freddie’s troubled soul and help him to work toward reclaiming his humanity, but I was beginning to think he preferred wolf form.
February came in wet but unseasonably mild, with rain spiking down from gray skies. Freddie slunk into the cottage and stretched himself in front of the fire in such a way that I almost tripped over him twice. He snarled at me, and I snarled back.
Damn wolf.
We’d sent our letter to the king, and a fortnight later we had a note from Lily, this time delivered by Mr. Reynard who doubtless wanted to check on Freddie before he let his daughter come anywhere near the cottage again. A big, old, scarred dog fox in his animal form, Mr. Reynard shouted his business from outside the barrier and, when I let him through, sauntered up to our door as if trying to tempt Freddie to chase him. Despite the provocation, Freddie, for once, behaved himself.
The letter said George Pomeroy had confirmed that his grandfather would deliver our letter into the hands of Sir Stephen Cotterell, with a special request that the letter was for the king’s eyes only.
“Do you think he read it himself?” I asked Corwen.
“I would have in his place, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t want to deliver anything seditious.”
“I don’t think the letter gave anything away except for Walsingham’s name. All we have to do now is hope the king acts on it.”
“How likely is that?”
He shook his head. “Not very. I’m expecting a trap, but we should go through the motions if only to prove to the Fae it’s a futile task.”
Until then we could only hope that not too many rowankind suffered the same fate as poor Sam and Jem. Lily’s note said she’d asked George Pomeroy to let her know if he heard of any other summary hangings.
6
Aunt Rosie
THE MIDDLE OF February brought a touch of frost and a welcome visit from Aunt Rosie and Leo. Our home had been Rosie’s, but she’d left it to us when she’d married Leo and moved to Summoner’s Well.
Rosie and Leo didn’t arrive via the Fae gate. They came along the deeply rutted forest road, riding two sturdy cobs, one skewbald and the other a flea-bitten gray. Rosie, one of the most powerful witches of her generation, though she’d never brag, had no trouble in recognizing David’s barrier for what it was and finding a way through.
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nbsp; I heard them approach, their ponies crunching across frost-crisp grass, and ran down the path to meet them, hugging Rosie and being hugged in turn. Corwen drew Leo into the cottage.
“You’ve made a few changes,” Rosie said, looking round our one room which was bedroom at one end and living area at the other.
I swung the kettle over the fire to boil water for tea. “Corwen’s pretty good at basic carpentry,” I said. “He fixed up your old chairs and built cupboard siding on the bed. Very useful when you share a home with your brother.”
“Yes, I never had the privacy problem, though I did once take in a crow who might have been more than he seemed. He was a little too interested in my undergarments.” She laughed. “I was glad when his wing healed, and I sent him on his way.”
The kettle boiled. I made tea in our willow-pattern teapot with the chip out of the spout and offered it in two almost matching china cups complete with saucers, while Corwen and I had a plain white mug and a floral cup without a saucer.
“Sorry. We don’t get many visitors,” I said as I poured.
“You don’t need to impress me. I’ve come to see you, not the state of your china, which, by the way, is all I left you.” She grinned, her eyes crinkling in a most becoming way.
Rosie, my mother’s twin sister, was as round and as full of fun as my mother had been gaunt and embittered. I sometimes wondered what might have happened if they’d stayed together and my mother had not rejected the practice of magic. My life would have been very different. Best not to go down that line of thought.
When the Mysterium found them, my mother, Marjorie, had fled to Plymouth, married a sea captain, Teague Goodliffe, and started a family: first me, named for my Aunt Rosie; then my brother Philip; and finally David, her third, unacknowledged child. She’d hidden her little bastard away with a Kentish family for the first ten years of his life until, as a lonely widow, she’d brought him home to be her servant, never telling him he was her son. Long before that happened, she and I had quarreled one time too many, and I’d run away to sea with Will Tremayne.
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