Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  “Do you feel it, John?” she said, and her voice seemed so much a part of the gathering night and of the gentle landscape beyond the windows, that Thornton was not perturbed, nor even overly surprised, to hear her speak, here, within the inner sanctum of his private chambers.

  He turned his head, slowly, almost lazily, but otherwise did not move.

  She was standing a pace or two inside the door, and Thornton, so given over to the magic of the twilit landscape, found himself thinking that she had not entered the chamber as any mortal person would have done, through the door, but had instead just materialised where now she stood, just as the night slowly fell outside without any discernible movement of arrival.

  Then his reserve roared to the fore.

  “Noah!” Thornton said, rising so abruptly from his chair that the remnants of his wine spilled from the glass. He suddenly realised that he stood before her in bare feet, clad only in breeches and a linen shirt that he’d unbuttoned in the warmth of the night, and he almost dropped the glass in his haste to set it to one side so he could pull the shirt closed about his chest.

  “John,” she said, and smiled.

  It was very gentle, that smile, and so unexpected in a sixteen-year-old girl, so comforting, so deep, that Thornton’s hands stilled where they fumbled at the shirt.

  Noah was still dressed as she had been this evening, when she’d sat with Thornton and the earl and countess for an hour after supper. In the past year she’d taken to wearing the costume of a woman rather than a girl, and this evening she was wearing one of her favourites: a full skirt of green silk topped with a bodice of green and ivory striped silk, its square neckline low cut over the swell of her breasts, the lacy cuffs of her chemise tumbling from its elbow-length sleeves. On most sixteen-year-old girls the costume would have looked ridiculously and horribly provocative, but on Noah it looked perfect, perhaps because she eschewed the overbearing ringleted hairstyle so beloved of women of fashion and wore her sleek dark hair loosely piled atop the crown of her head where it made clothing that would otherwise have been overly flirtatious and insulting to Noah’s youth merely an adornment to the beauty of the girl herself.

  “The land,” she said, her head inclining very slightly towards the window. “Do you feel it?”

  “What?” he said, stupidly.

  By the Lord, what would happen if the earl or countess discovered their charge in his room? What if a servant happened by, and heard Noah’s warm, rich voice issue forth from beneath the door?

  He knew he should be demanding she leave. He knew he should be furiously stoking the fires of his indignant anger, of his moral outrage…of his concern for her innocence, for sweet Jesus’ sake, but Thornton could do none of this.

  He could only stand, and stare at her.

  “The land,” she said yet again, and he marvelled at how calm her voice was; how assured. “You were sitting in the chair, being at one with the land. It is why I am here.”

  “Noah…”

  She walked forward, as if her presence within his chamber was the most natural and expected thing, until she stood directly before Thornton; then she turned calmly about, and presented her back to him.

  If she had been coquettish, if she had been hard, or abrasive, if she had shown wantonness or lewdness, if she had shown herself to be overly practised…if Noah had done or shown any of these things, Thornton would have found it easy to open his mouth and speak scathing or condemnatory words, or perhaps to have taken her arm in a gentle hand, and spoken to her words of wise caution as he escorted her to the door (and, in both instances, to have presented the earl with his regretful resignation in the morning).

  Instead, he found himself staring transfixed as his hand—moving as if it were controlled by a mind other than his own—raised itself to the bare skin of her shoulders above the neckline of her bodice, and rested itself there, its palm flat against her soft warmth.

  She drew in a slow, deep breath, her head tilting back very slightly, and Thornton heard joy in that breath. He moved his hand across the rise at the back of her neck, where the column of her neck joined her shoulders, and realised that he was caressing her.

  And then realised that his other hand had raised itself to the laces of her bodice and was pulling them loose, one by one.

  One of her hands raised itself, as if to pull at the sleeve of the bodice.

  “No,” he whispered, and, kissing the back of her neck with a soft, gentle mouth, pulled her bodice free himself.

  She caught it the instant before it fell to the floor, and draped it over a nearby coffer.

  Her chemise was made of a very fine linen, a lawn, and Thornton could see the gleam of her skin through it.

  Sweet Jesus, her skin…it glowed in the night, as if it were lit within by a soft ivory fire.

  Then the chemise was unlaced, seemingly of its own accord, and was falling away, and Thornton’s hands had slipped about her body, and were now caressing her breasts.

  She turned within the circle of his arms, and lifted her face for his kiss.

  Her breasts brushed against the skin of his chest, and Thornton groaned as he bent down to her, and kissed her with more abandon and passion than he had ever thought himself capable of.

  “Do I taste foul to you?” she said, pulling her mouth away just enough to speak the words.

  “Foul?” he said. “How could that be?”

  “A man said to me once, as he kissed me, that he could taste the foulness of corruption in my mouth.”

  “I taste no foulness,” he said, and it was true, for he could taste many things in her mouth—warmth, comfort, tenderness, knowledge beyond knowing, peace—and not one of them was in any manner a close cousin to foulness.

  “John Thornton,” she said as his mouth slipped down her neck, and his hands fumbled with the ties of, first, her skirt and then of her underskirt, “you are a very good man, which is why I am here.”

  Suddenly everything seemed right in John Thornton’s mind: why she was here, and why he reacted to her with as much abandonment and lack of care as he did. He felt somehow graced by the privilege she bestowed upon him.

  He did not feel like the earl’s trusted tutor, taking terrible advantage of one of his charges.

  He did not feel like a man of God who had abandoned every tenet of his belief and righteousness at the first sight (taste and feel) of a tender, swelling breast.

  She was unclothed now, and Thornton pulled back from her so he could disrobe. She smiled as his clothes fell away, and pulled him back to her, and she did not seem perturbed or frightened by the feel of his hardness against her belly, and he did not feel perturbed at her lack of fear of his nakedness and arousal.

  He sighed, content, and lifted her to the bed.

  Thornton had slept with two women in his thirty-two years. The first woman had been the kind of woman he both despised and feared: a hard, brazen woman, a widow, who took into her bed young students from the nearby Cambridge colleges for a few pennies scattered across the sheets once they had done.

  He had gone to her three times, driven by the rising, almost uncontrollable desires of youth, and he had despised himself far more than her as he’d risen hastily from her bed and self-consciously tossed the pennies on the sheets.

  The second woman Thornton had lain with was another widow, but this time a woman that Thornton had hoped to wed. He was twenty-five, newly graduated but not yet a full member of the Church of England, she twenty-nine, and they had spent a few months in the summer believing that perhaps they had a future together. Their two brief, hurried couplings had been cumbersome, awkward and guilt-ridden, and had likely been the reason the woman and Thornton had decided, finally, to go their separate ways.

  But this, this, this was the first time in his life that Thornton felt as if his sexual union with a woman was also a complete union of body and soul with another human being. There was no awkwardness for either of them, not even in her virginity: no fumbling, no guilt, no desperation
.

  Only sweetness, joy, and a warmth and comfort that Thornton had never imagined could exist.

  All this, he wondered at one moment, as she arched her body into his, and laughed, and told him how wonderful he was, in a girl only sixteen.

  But, oh, in sinking into her he felt as if he sank into generations. It was as if he were being invited home after years spent wandering lost, as if he had found himself deep within her.

  “John Thornton,” she whispered to him as she caught at his hips with her hands, and encouraged him into a slower and deeper rhythm, “do you feel it?”

  And yes, he did feel it. He felt the rise and fall of the land as it rolled away over hill and dale; he felt the joy in the waters of the streams and lakes as they tossed and turned under the sway of the moon; he felt the blessed peace of the night give way to the gentle joy of the morning, and then slip away again into twilight and mystery.

  And he felt her, all of her, and knew that there was nothing else awaiting him in this life that would give him any greater sense of joy and blessing than this woman could.

  Later, when they lay quietly side by side, he kissed the beauty of her shoulder and said, “Be my wife.” What more could he ask for but that she be beside him, and be the mother of his children?

  “I cannot,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She did not immediately reply, and Thornton felt for the first time a great sadness within her.

  “I would destroy you,” she whispered, “for eventually I would have to leave you.”

  And he could see how that would be so. If she married him, and then left him, it would destroy him so completely she might as well have stabbed him deep within the heart before she had walked out the door.

  “I will be your lover for a while,” she said.

  “It will be enough,” he said, knowing it never would be, but that he would need to content himself with it.

  She sighed, and rolled over so that she faced him, and took his face between her eyes.

  “Can you feel it, John Thornton?” she said again, and he could, as before: the rise and fall of the land, and all the strange faerie creatures that were somehow associated with this woman, and he knew that she was no real woman at all, but a rare, magical being who had, for whatever reason, decided to stay a while at Woburn Abbey and there to bless his life with her presence.

  “Be my lover,” she said, and he nodded, the movement brushing his mouth against hers.

  “Yes,” he whispered, and he felt then the land itself sigh, content.

  Inside the stone hall the imp stirred, made mildly uncomfortable by the woman’s closeness with the man she lay with. It sent a query to its master, but because the imp itself was merely mildly put out, and only mildly curious, its master dismissed the event.

  “It is of no matter,” he told the imp. “She can whore with whoever she wants. It will give her no respite, no relief, no escape.”

  The imp grinned, and settled back for that day when its master would need more of it than the occasional report on the activities of the woman the imp inhabited.

  Then the imp’s grin faded, for this stone hall was a cold and barren place (or so it appeared to the imp), and it sighed, and wished its master would find a need and a purpose for the imp soon, for it grew lonely and bored.

  Eleven

  The Realm of the Faerie

  He twisted in sleep, his mind consumed with images of Cornelia.

  Of Cornelia—with a man who he did not recognise. Jealousy rippled through him, and for a moment threatened to wake him.

  But he overcame it, and slid so deep into dream that when he slipped into the Faerie it was so effortless a transition he barely realised it.

  He woke, and he was no longer in his borrowed bedchamber in the governor’s castle on Jersey.

  Instead he stood atop a hill. He felt as though he stood on an island, for while the hill on which he stood was bare of anything save a smooth carpet of grass, all the other hills which rolled away into the distance were covered with forest. Mist drifted about the valleys between the hills, but his summit was bathed in sunshine.

  “Greetings, Coel.”

  Coel turned about.

  A tall, pale spindly creature with a long, expressive face and melancholy eyes stood a few paces away. He wore nothing but some poorly made leather jerkin and trousers, from which poked overly large hands and bare feet.

  Coel frowned, and then memory filtered back to him, and he smiled. “Greetings, Long Tom,” he said.

  Long Tom held out both his hands, and Coel walked forward and took them.

  “Why am I here?” said Coel.

  “What is ‘here’, Coel?” said Long Tom.

  Coel looked about him. Then he gasped, and colour flooded his face. “I am in the Realm of the Faerie!”

  Long Tom laughed in delight, and squeezed Coel’s hands. “Yes! You stand in the land of the Faerie. I remember when I came to you that day I pointed you towards Pen Hill and Caela. Then, you thought I’d led you into the Realm of the Faerie, but this time I have truly, and this day waits an even greater blessing than Caela.”

  “Why am I here, Long Tom?”

  Long Tom gave his hands another squeeze, then let them go. “Look,” he said, pointing.

  Coel turned. A throne stood on the eastern segment of the summit, and on the seat of the throne lay a crown of twisted twigs and sprigs of red berries. As he watched, the sunshine which bathed the summit became particularly intense above the throne, and Coel frowned as the crown of twigs turned a rich gold.

  “What is that?” he said.

  “Your crown,” said Long Tom.

  For a long moment Coel said nothing. He stared at the throne with its crown, before finally looking back at Long Tom.

  “How is this so?” he said.

  “How can it not be so?”

  “I am not…” Coel’s voice drifted off.

  “You cannot deny it,” said Long Tom. “You are unable to.”

  “I…”

  “You made Eaving atop Pen Hill. Do you not remember?”

  Coel’s brow furrowed.

  “You were the land,” said Long Tom. “You made Eaving.”

  “I made love with her.”

  “You made her. You were the land. You always have been.”

  Coel did not answer. He studied the grass, as if it could somehow reveal to him all the answers for the questions which flooded his mind.

  “When you return to England,” said Long Tom, his voice now low and vibrant with power, “will you accept the crown? Will you stand forth as the Lord of the Faerie, the land’s first and last defence?”

  Coel kept his face turned to the grass for a very long time, but finally he lifted it, and looked at Long Tom. For so long he had felt directionless, unwanted, unfulfilled.

  Now…

  His face flooded with joy as, finally, he realised he had found his purpose.

  “Yes,” he said. “I will take the crown.”

  Twelve

  Idol Lane

  Two years later

  She had first become aware of it as an irritation. A sore on her forehead that would not vanish no matter the time and effort she put into it.

  Then came a rash, then a fever, then more reddened weeping sores, and in more intimate places.

  The day Jane Orr confronted the truth of what had happened to her was one of the worst days of her life, of all of her lives, and she thought she had suffered unendurably before this.

  But this…the pox. She had contracted the pox. This was to what her pride and ambition, her heritage and promise, her power and beauty had brought her.

  The pox.

  Given to her no doubt by one of the sailors Weyland had forced on her.

  A whore, and now a poxy whore.

  MagaLlan, Darkwitch, Mistress of the Labyrinth: inheritor of a heritage so proud, so stunning, that few could have comprehended it, and this is to what it had brought her.

  A poxy whore.
Despised by all who laid eyes on her. That Jane no longer worked the mattresses was of no consequence. Everyone who saw her knew her profession from the open weeping sores on her face. All would despise and pity her, men and women alike.

  How could she—MagaLlan, Darkwitch, and Mistress of the Labyrinth—have come to this? A poxy whore.

  The temptation was there to blame Asterion for all of it—for her downfall, for her degradation, for her daily humiliations—but Jane no longer had the energy to evade the truth. She was as much to blame for this as he: her blindness, her stupidity, her damned arrogance…

  Oh gods, her ambition to rule the world through the Troy Game. Perversely, rather than hating Weyland, Jane found herself hating Brutus. If it wasn’t for him…if only they hadn’t attempted to create the Troy Game…if only they hadn’t ignored the danger of Asterion…

  If only she had never met Brutus, and had lived out her life as MagaLlan and Darkwitch and nothing else. Gods, then she would have had the respect of all who beheld her.

  Now she lived her life in the house that Weyland had purchased in Idol Lane. She was its mistress, a fact Weyland often remarked upon with a small smile on his face. You are the mistress only of a whore-house, Jane. And generally, after that, some crude jest upon the labyrinthine ways of the whore’s bed.

  Jane ran the house as well as those pitiable girls that Weyland dragged in from the streets to work for him for a few years. She wasn’t sure where he found them, but find them Weyland did, and he gave them to Jane to feed, wash, manage and advise. They lived and worked in Idol Lane for a year or two, perhaps three, and then Weyland grew tired of them, and set them loose back into the streets. Where they went from there Jane did not know, but she worried about it from time to time, wondering what kind of lives these girls faced, alone and friendless. Weyland might do many terrible things to those girls, but at least he’d fed them, and put a roof over their heads.