Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  And yet none of them felt right.

  Weyland had not thought he would be so fastidious. He found fault with this house, and then that, and then the one after. This was too gloomy, this too airy, this had too many doors. After all, what was a house? A shelter, only—yet why should he care so greatly about finding the right shelter? To his disgust, as his hunt for a house extended into the months, Weyland found himself dreaming of shelter; of finding the perfect and most unexpected shelter; of falling into a space so comforting and beloved he could finally feel safe. Contented. Fulfilled.

  These dreams worried Weyland. Yearning dreams of a comforting and safe shelter were so unlike him that Weyland wondered if he’d somehow managed to fall under the influence of some dark, malign planet. Damn it! All he needed was something vaguely upright, with at least two rooms, and secreted down some dark alleyway.

  How difficult could that be in a city composed of almost nothing else?

  Finally, just when Weyland thought he would drive himself insane with the looking, he wandered down Idol Lane.

  Idol Lane was a narrow, crooked, dark, malodorous passageway in Tower Street Ward that ran north from Thames Street uphill to the junction of Tower and Little Tower streets. It was relatively insignificant, save that, halfway along, the lane bordered the jumbled buildings and churchyard of St Dunstan’s-in-the-East; everything else in the lane was either dank warehouse or tumbledown tenement. Barely nine feet wide the lane was cobbled with slippery, slime-covered stones, and existed in a permanent state of semi-darkness as both the church buildings and the warehouses reared so high into the sky that all sunlight was effectively blocked out.

  As it was, the lane was much the same as hundreds of other malodorous, narrow lanes in the city, and as he stepped into it Weyland did not give it much thought. He was due to meet with a wealthy wool merchant in the church nave who required a small item that no one but Weyland could procure for him.

  That the small item had to be stolen from the bedchamber of one of the great nobles in the realm had vastly increased its already not inconsiderable value, and Weyland was looking forward to a payment that would—should he ever find the right house—furnish his new home quite nicely.

  Weyland slipped into the churchyard and then through a small door in the northern face of the church into the nave. St Dunstan’s-in-the-East had once been a quite magnificent church but now was greatly decayed. Its once beautiful floor of luminous green tiles was marred with myriad cracks. The banners hanging from the roof beams were motheaten and so faded their armorial shields were impossible to read. Two of the stained-glass windows were broken. Most of the golden plate from the altar had been pawned, and the majority of the stone memorials and tombs in the church (of which there were close to a hundred) were water-stained and crumbled.

  Weyland hated it the instant he stepped inside. The church was unbearably dismal, and he resolved to have done with his business as quickly as he might.

  The wool merchant was waiting as planned in a side chapel.

  “You have it?” the merchant asked as Weyland joined him.

  “Aye,” Weyland said. “You have the coin?”

  The merchant grimaced, as if he found the subject of money repellent. This annoyed Weyland, for how else had this merchant managed to scrabble together enough for his stolen bauble if not by money-dealing?

  “Aye,” the merchant mumbled.

  “Give it to me,” said Weyland.

  “Show it to me,” said the merchant.

  Weyland sighed, but drew from a pocket a small leather-wrapped bundle. Glancing about to make sure they were unobserved, Weyland unfolded the leather, and showed the merchant that which he craved—a stunning ruby ring that the merchant wanted to give to his nubile young lover.

  His eyes unable to remove themselves from the ring with which he would purchase a few short nights in his lover’s bed, the merchant unclipped his purse and tipped a pile of gold coins into Weyland’s outstretched hand.

  “Don’t spend it all at once,” the merchant said, snatching the ring from Weyland’s other hand.

  “I need to purchase a house,” said Weyland. “No doubt this shall prove more than useful for the purpose.”

  That comment finally drew the merchant’s eyes from ring to Weyland’s face. “You? A house?” The merchant gave a small mirthless chuckle. “What do your sort need with houses? All you need is a rat hole, surely.”

  Weyland’s mouth thinned, but before he could retort the merchant continued.

  “Use the money to buy the godforsaken ruin attached to the bone house of this church. It’s no idyll, to be sure, but it has enough damp spots and shadowy corners within which to hide your deceitfulness.”

  And then he was gone, and Weyland was left standing, looking at the spot where he’d been, his mouth open in astonishment.

  It’s no idyll, to be sure, but it has enough damp spots and shadowy corners within which to hide your deceitfulness.

  Weyland did not know what it was about those words, but something about them called to him. He stood a moment longer, then he strode out of the church and turned right up Idol Lane to the jumble of buildings that had once housed the medieval monks of St Dunstan’s.

  They were all solidly built—made of stone, which in a city of timbered houses was unusual enough—if showing evidence of the same decay that beset the church. At the extreme northern boundary of the church buildings stood the bone house where the clergy of St Dunstan’s stored the bones they dug up from their increasingly full churchyard.

  The northern wall of the bone house abutted on to a four-storeyed house made of the same stone as the rest of the church and outbuildings. A small alleyway ran down the northern side of the house. Weyland had no idea to what purpose the house had once been put, but now it had an air of neglect and loneliness that bespoke its emptiness.

  No doubt the clergy of St Dunstan’s wished to sell it to raise enough money for repairs to the church itself.

  Weyland walked slowly to the front door and turned the handle.

  It opened, and he walked inside.

  The door opened directly into a large, unfurnished and dusty parlour which Weyland could see then led into a kitchen. Three paces away from the door rose a staircase, and it was to this that Weyland walked. Hesitating a moment at its base—briefly laying a hand against the shared wall with the bone house to feel the souls lost and moaning on its other side—Weyland climbed the stairs.

  He did not come down for over five hours, and when he did, it was to walk directly out the door and back down Idol Lane to the church to open negotiations with the vicar.

  Seven

  Elizabeth Castle, Jersey

  From Jersey Charles had gone to France, had wandered through parts of the Netherlands, and then in the late summer of 1649 he had returned to Jersey. He had wanted to go home, home to England, but this small island was all that remained of his kingdom. Yes, his kingdom now, for Parliament had taken his father on a cold January day to an even colder block and there, to the accompaniment of the groans of the watching crowd, taken from him his head. Charles had been in the Netherlands, and had known of his father’s death only when his chaplain, Stephen Goffe, had entered the chamber and said, haltingly, “Majesty…” before bursting into tears.

  The crown was his, but it was a fragile and ephemeral thing. What use a crown with no realm? Parliament had gone mad, declared a Commonwealth, abolished the monarchy, set up Oliver Cromwell as the nation’s Protector, and Charles was left with nothing save the memories and ambitions of several lives, and the knowledge that it was likely Asterion had caused all of this. Charles had thought of invasion, but there was little hope of that. He had no monies with which to raise an army (he had hardly the monies to feed himself and his companions), and, besides, he knew that England was sick of war and would not tolerate yet another.

  So Charles had come back to Jersey if only for the reason that it was the closest he could come to his land and to London.


  In Jersey Charles loitered in chamber and hall, grew another three inches, rode to the hunt, made love to Marguerite, and, in his most despairing of moments, listened to the bravado of his courtiers and advisers as they plotted and planned about him: invade through Scotland, through Ireland, invoke the aid of the French, the Dutch, and even the faeries, if they could help.

  Nothing could aid him against Asterion. Nothing save his own wits.

  In July of 1649 Charles was seated in his private chamber within Elizabeth Castle. The sun streamed in through the windows, and Charles thought idly that perhaps he could make use of this autumn sunshine and call for his horse, ride along the cliff tops listening to the screaming of the seagulls and pretend that they were the screams of his supporters, or the cheers of the Londoners as they welcomed him back into his city and his heritage, or even the acclaim of the assembled nobility (those who had survived Parliament’s hatred) as the Archbishop of Canterbury lowered the crown to his head in Westminster Abbey.

  His mind shied away from what had happened the last time an archbishop had laid the crown on his head.

  Charles was almost completely lost in his daydreams of restoration when there was a discreet knock at the door, and Sir Edward Hyde, friend, supporter and counsellor, entered.

  “Majesty,” said Hyde, who always managed to make that word sound something other than cynically pointless. He inclined his head, one knee slightly bent, and managed to make that action look truly deferential instead of stupidly meaningless.

  “What is it?” said Charles.

  “There is a man who came across yesterday from France, majesty. He claims to bear a message for you, for your ears only.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow.

  “He has no weapon, majesty, and no poisons secreted about his person or clothes. He is well-spoken and -bred, although he bears but a common name and a base ancestry.”

  “And that is…?”

  “Louis de Silva, bastard son of the Marquis de Lonquefort.”

  Charles started to shrug in disinterest, but then paused. “De Silva?” Of the forest?

  “Aye.”

  “Tell me of him—his appearance, his aspect, his humour.”

  “He is of your age, and as dark, although not so well-built nor with your height. He speaks well, in quiet and pleasing tones. He has the eyes of a poet…and the impatience of one, too.”

  Charles very slowly smiled, and for a moment Hyde thought he’d never seen his young king look happier.

  “Then send him in, my friend. Send him in!”

  Hyde had only to step to the door and murmur a few words to admit the man: Hyde must have been certain of Charles’ reaction.

  As soon as Louis de Silva had entered, Hyde exited, closing the door behind himself.

  De Silva stared at the young king sitting on the chest by the window, then he bowed, deep and formal, sweeping off the hat from his head so that it swept the floor.

  “Charles,” he said. “Majesty.”

  Charles rose slowly, looking intently at the newcomer. The man had dark hair, as dark as Charles’ own, but straight, and worn much shorter, slicked back from his face; his build was less muscular than Charles’, but nonetheless gave the impression of wiry strength and grace, as if he would be as useful on the dance floor as on the battlefield. His hands, where they emerged from the lace cuffs of his doublet, were long and slender, yet with the same implied strength as his build and bearing.

  De Silva was a stunning man, not simply in his dark fine-boned handsomeness or in his graceful carriage, but in the depth of his dark eyes, and the wildness that lurked there.

  De Silva…of the forest.

  Louis de Silva watched Charles stare at him, and then he slowly smiled. “Greetings, Brutus,” he said.

  Charles took a halting step forward, then another, and then one more before he embraced de Silva fiercely. “Oh, gods, I am glad you are here!” He pulled back, and took de Silva’s face between his hands. “Poet Coel? Is that you I see in there?”

  “Who else?” said de Silva.

  For a moment both men stared at each other, then they burst into laughter, and embraced once more, even more fiercely than previously.

  “I had not believed that Asterion could be bested until now, this moment, when I laid eyes on you,” Louis de Silva said, finally pulling back.

  “Careful,” Charles said, and laid a hand on Louis’ mouth. “Words are powerful, and they can also be enemies.”

  “But not you and I, not any more.”

  “We were not enemies in our last life, Louis. Not then, and most certainly not now.”

  Again they stared at each other, hands resting on each other’s shoulders, wordless, their eyes brimming with tears.

  “Who else?” said Louis eventually, and Charles knew instantly what he meant.

  “Mother Ecub is here with me,” he said, and then grinned at the expression on Louis’ face. “A younger Mother Ecub, called Marguerite Carteret now, and the delectable daughter of the governor of this island.”

  “Delectable? You have tasted her? Mother Ecub?”

  “Why is it you always think me old and arthritic?” said a woman’s voice from the doorway, and Charles and Louis turned to see the woman who stood there.

  Marguerite entered, closed the door, and curtsied prettily first to Charles and then to Louis. “Demure and sensible, and always at service,” she murmured. Louis chuckled, stepped forward, and kissed her hand.

  “The first among Eaving’s Sisters,” he said, all humour now gone from his voice, and Marguerite shuddered at the blackness and depth in his eyes. “Where is she, Marguerite?”

  “We don’t know precisely,” Marguerite said. “She is in England, but further than that…” She shrugged.

  “Is she with Asterion?” said Louis.

  Charles shook his head. “We would have felt it,” he said. “All of us.”

  Louis sighed. “Any others?” he said.

  Charles and Marguerite exchanged glances.

  “Well?” Louis snapped. “Who?”

  “Loth is back,” said Marguerite.

  “Born my younger brother,” Charles said.

  “James?” said Louis. “The Duke of York?”

  Charles nodded. “Aye.” He paused, and looked at Louis steadily. “He calls me Brutus, and hates me.”

  Louis’ mouth slowly dropped open. “He doesn’t—?”

  “No,” said Marguerite. “He lives with his mother in France, and has taken greatly to Catholic priests.”

  If possible, Louis’ jaw dropped even further open. “Christianity? Loth?”

  “Charles and I think,” Marguerite said, taking Charles’ hand, a gesture that Louis did not miss, “that perhaps he has lost purpose.”

  “Or has had it lost for him,” said Charles.

  “What do you mean?” said Louis.

  “That perhaps the Game has no more use for him.”

  Louis raised his eyebrows, blowing out the breath slowly from his cheeks. “I still cannot reconcile the idea of Loth taking to Christianity.”

  “Is that idea any stranger than what some of us have taken to?” asked Charles with a grin, and Louis smiled back.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Charles waved Louis to a chair, then sat himself down on the chest under the window, Marguerite beside him. “Genvissa?” he said once Louis had seated himself.

  Louis shrugged. “I have no interest. I cannot bear the thought of her. I do not know where she is, or what her estate. I imagine that she has found herself a comfortable magnate to take her as wife, and that she lives somewhere in London, in comfort, and plotting with…well, with whoever suits her purpose for the moment.”

  “We are merely glad she has not yet touched our lives,” said Marguerite.

  At that Charles leaned forward, changing the subject, and thus they sat for many hours, talking of this and that, renewing friendship, and staying away from the one subject that ate at all three of them: Co
rnelia, where was she? How was she?

  Eight

  Elizabeth Castle, Jersey

  Marguerite tossed in her sleep. It was a warm night, and Charles more than half lay over her, but neither the oppressive heat nor her lover’s weight caused her restlessness.

  Instead, Marguerite dreamed of Pen Hill, where, during her last life, she’d spent so much time as prioress of St Margaret the Martyr.

  At least, Marguerite thought this was Pen Hill.

  It was of a similar height and aspect, with the same gentle rounded grassy knoll ringed by the standing stones (Sidlesaghes). But the hill did not overlook London, as had Pen Hill, and there was something very different about the stones, and Marguerite knew she had to concentrate on them.

  Pen Hill had a score or more of stones on its peak, but now that Marguerite focussed, she saw that this hill only had two stones, standing on opposite edges of the summit. Marguerite could feel the wind rush through them, and she knew she was being shown the rushing of this wind for some reason.

  Something changed. A third stone materialised at the edge of the knoll, and the two stones already there somehow shifted their position so that there was now an equal distance between each of them.

  The wind no longer rushed through.

  The dream stilled, and Marguerite knew that at this point an understanding was being demanded of her.

  The wind no longer rushed through…

  Where two stones had formed no barrier at all, the presence of a third had formed a barrier.

  The wind no longer rushed through, but was contained within the grassy knoll.

  Contained within the circle of the stones.

  Two cannot form a circle.

  Three can.

  The wind was power…held within the Circle.

  Marguerite gasped, her body jerking in its sleep so that Charles murmured and shifted.

  Now something was happening within the Circle on the hill. Something momentous.

  Something in the grass.