Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  Her face, like Charles’, was taut and pale with worry.

  “My God, Charles, what shall we find?”

  “A people who shall acclaim us,” he said.

  “That was not what I meant.”

  He sighed, and turned to one side to pick up and fiddle with his broad-brimmed blue velvet hat. “I have not heard from Louis. Not from anyone.” He looked back at his wife, and raised his eyes.

  “And I have felt nothing. No echoes of pain or misery such as I felt two nights ago. I pray that Louis found her in time.” She rested her hand on Charles’ arm. “Charles, she will be well. Noah is a powerful woman. A goddess. No one knows that better than you. She will not be a pawn, even if Weyland has her.”

  Charles laid a hand against her cheek, then kissed her mouth, careful not to smear any of her carefully applied make-up. “I am well served in you as a wife,” he said softly. “Whatever happens, with you at my side…”

  “At the least we shall win for ourselves a kingdom,” she said, and grinned, “with considerable less fuss than the last time. Charles, put aside your cares, keep that smile on your face and go forth now and do what you must. Sitting here and worrying shall advance our cause not a whit.”

  “You are as wise as you are beautiful. England shall be well served in you as queen.”

  At that moment there came a discreet knock at the door, then it opened.

  It was James, Duke of York, Charles’ younger brother and Loth-reborn. He had joined Charles just as he was leaving The Hague after spending most of the exile years with their mother in France.

  “James,” Charles said, giving his brother a nod.

  James was a “not quite” copy of his older brother. He was not quite as tall, not quite so dark, his hair not quite so curly or luxurious, his features not quite so handsome, and they exuded not quite so much power as did Charles’. Nonetheless, he emanated a particular peace, which Charles put down to his adherence to the Christian faith.

  “It is time to go ashore,” James said, a strange tightness to his voice.

  “What, James,” said Charles, “do you hear the thud of the stag’s hooves on the forest floor?”

  “Charles—” James began. He stopped, and Charles saw just how emotional his brother was.

  “You are glad to be home,” he said.

  “Aye,” said James, “I do not think I could ever bear to be parted from this land again.”

  Charles gave a small smile, although his eyes were wary, as they always were when dealing with his brother. “I am glad for it,” he said, then he turned to Catharine. “Now, my darling, let us go to the deck, and endeavour to get ourselves into the Admiral’s barge with the least ruin to our finery as possible.”

  He gave Catharine his arm, and led her forth onto the deck.

  After a moment, James followed.

  Most people in the fleet clearly seemed to think that they had a place reserved for them in the Admiral’s barge, and it took almost an hour to manage to get both king and queen, several of the king’s dogs, as well as numerous officials, dignitaries and courtiers into the barge and still leave enough room for the sailors who must perforce do the rowing.

  Charles and Catharine sat about a third of the way down from the bow, shaded from the sun by a canopy and from the spray by artfully raised canvas walls to either side of the barge. Next to them sat the faithful Sir Edward Hyde (created Earl of Clarendon as part of the king’s morning business aboard) as well as Sir Edward Montagu, while James sat just before them, his face continuously turned to the white cliffs and the swathe of green that topped them. More than anything else Charles would have liked to have had Louis at his side for this grand entry into England, but it was not to be. He took Catharine’s hand, and squeezed it, and smiled for her.

  She could clearly see the worry return to his eyes and, to distract him, she tilted her head to where Samuel Pepys sat towards the rear of the barge, scribbling away in what appeared to be a notebook.

  “Master Pepys is ever the busy secretary,” she said, and then looked to Montagu. “You are well served by Pepys, my lord.”

  “Oh, aye, majesty,” said Montagu, then sighed heavily. “No doubt he sits there now, even on this day of all days, and busies himself figuring how much I owe my creditors.”

  Charles laughed and, half-rising from his seat, called out to Pepys. “What do you there, good Master Pepys? Is there not enough to entertain you on this day that you must worry at your lord’s accounts?”

  Pepys smiled and rose, bowing at both Charles and Catharine. “Not accounts at all, gracious majesties! I take notes of all that happens about me, all that I see on this auspicious day. I keep a diary, and like to record all that I see as well as all I do, sin or no.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow. “You record your sins? Truly? And what does your good wife say, Pepys, when she reads your diary while you are about your lord’s business?”

  Again Pepys bowed. “I write only in cipher, majesty. There are few who could figure it, and my good Elizabeth most certainly not among them.”

  Charles laughed, and waved Pepys back to his seat as he sat himself. “A diary,” he said to Catharine, half-shaking his head.

  “Well,” she said, “he shall have many pretty things to write about today’s celebrations, no doubt. And,” she grinned, mischievously, “better a diary to record your victorious entry into your kingdom, perhaps, than years spent working a tapestry?”

  Charles smiled at her reference to the magnificent tapestry that, as Matilda, she had caused to be woven to record her husband William’s victorious campaign over the Anglo-Saxon forces.

  Then Catharine’s faced sobered. “Ah, I’m sorry, my love. I should not have laughed about Harold’s—”

  He kissed her mouth, silencing her apology. “You do not need to apologise to me,” he said. “Never.” They reached shore safely, save that one of Charles’ dogs shat in the barge, which sent Pepys to more furious scribbling, and the rest of the barge into uproarious laughter.

  “I am but a man,” Charles said, disarmingly, as the laughter finally petered out, “and my dogs mess as those of any other man.”

  From the barge they managed the dry sand with minimum difficulty (Catharine smiling in delight as she was carried over the waves sitting on the linked arms of two tall diplomats) where Charles immediately sank to his knees.

  He grabbed two handfuls of the sand, and lifted them skyward. “I praise God in heaven,” he cried so that all might hear, “for my safe return to my beloved homeland, and beg Him to grant me the wisdom to guide my people bravely and well and in the manner to which He commends me.”

  To one side, Catharine nodded, murmuring “Amen”, glad that Charles had the presence of mind to set the scene for a rule guided by God’s hand, and not as God’s divine agent on earth, answerable to no one, which was his father’s fatal error. She also wondered at the action, knowing most present were educated enough to know that William the Conqueror had done much the same thing when he first set foot on England’s beaches…save that when William had seized his two fistfuls of sand, he had cried out, “See, England is mine!”

  She knew her husband’s diplomacy was second to none, but then in both of his previous lives his tact and wisdom had been deeper than that commanded by most men.

  From the beach the royal party made their way to a cobbled area that bounded the wharves. There awaited them a huge crowd waving flags and flowers, at their fore the Mayor of Dover and the man to whom Charles owed his restoration: General Monck.

  Monck stepped forward first and, stunningly, for none had expected this, dropped to his knee before Charles and kissed his ring before raising his face to the king and welcoming him with words of both loyalty and honour. Charles drew him gently to his feet, kissed him on either cheek, and spoke soft words of gratitude and admiration to him which made Monk’s face flush with pleasure.

  Then, once the mayor had greeted Charles, the ordnance of Dover Castle roared into life, and
after that, in quick succession, the ordnance of every military establishment, camp and castle that lined the roads and sat upon the hills. At the deafening sound of cannon and gun, huge bonfires, set on the hilltops stretching from Dover all the way to the Tower in London leapt into life, so that the entire south-eastern corner of England roared and shook and thundered and flamed in honour of their king.

  Charles was home.

  Six

  Dover to Blackheath, Kent

  Charles and Catharine rested the night in Dover, both with terrible headaches from the noise of the cannon. Next morning, their headaches dissipated, they proceeded by open coach through the port town and thence onto the road to Canterbury. Again, Charles and Catharine were dressed with considerable splendour as well as gaiety; they were happy, and they wanted all to see it. James rode just behind their coach, almost as richly dressed as Charles, and behind him came a great train of courtiers and nobles and soldiers, both mounted and on foot.

  They travelled slowly. In part this was, again, because Charles wished to delay his arrival into London until his thirtieth birthday, but in part it was also necessity.

  The roads were lined by local militia, resplendent in their uniforms, along with the people come to see their returning king; at times the crowds were so thick it was impossible for Charles’ coach to proceed at anything faster than a walk. As the militia saluted, the people shouted and waved, sang and danced, and everywhere maidens threw handfuls of herbs onto the road before Charles’ coach.

  Charles appeared the epitome of gracious happiness. He smiled and called out good-naturedly to the crowds, thanking them for their grace in welcoming him. Sometimes he stood, and took Catharine’s hand, and introduced her to the crowd as his “most divinely beautiful and gracious beloved, my wife, Catharine, your queen”, and the crowds loved it as Catharine flushed.

  By the night of the 26th they had reached Canterbury, where Charles and Catharine attended service in the ancient cathedral and the king met for the first time with his Privy Council. Charles took the opportunity to once again thank General Monck for his support and wisdom and advice, and present him with the Order of the Garter. They spent the night in Canterbury, then proceeded in much the same manner the following day, the crowds and joy no less thick, to the town of Rochester.

  From Rochester they made their way on the 28th of May to Blackheath, the windy plateau rising above Greenwich and only an hour or so by a fast horse from London. Charles was increasingly nervous, although he hid it well. At night, alone with Catharine, he worried that he’d not heard from Louis, or even from Marguerite and Kate who he had expected to be among the first to welcome him to England.

  “They may be in London,” Catharine had tried to reassure him.

  “Damn it, Catharine! Louis knows I will be ill with worry!”

  “Then perhaps he has Noah safely, but cannot move for fear of discovery.”

  “I pray it be so,” Charles said.

  At Blackheath, Charles and Catharine took (or were offered on bent knee, rather) the house of a local dignitary that stood on the ridge of the heath and overlooked London in the distance. That evening, having somehow managed to extricate themselves from all the hangers-on, servants, courtiers, clerks and sundry other officials that forever crowded about a king, Charles and Catharine stood at the window on the first floor gallery which looked north-westwards.

  It was a clear, calm evening, the setting sun silvering the gentle sweep of the Thames, and touching with gold the green trees and flowered gardens and meadows that stretched from the edges of Blackheath to the banks of the river some two miles distant.

  Charles stood behind Catharine, gently cradling her against his body. He was almost physically ill with worry, but standing there, looking at what had been unattainable for so long as it lay in the far distance, feeling Catharine’s gentle warmth suffuse his body, he could almost forget his troubles.

  “Catharine…” he said, nuzzling his mouth against her neck.

  She smiled, leaning her body even more firmly against his. “And wouldn’t it be a tragedy, beloved, if Noah were to suddenly burst through those doors behind us right now?”

  He laughed, his breath fanning out against her skin, making her shudder. “Noah would understand.”

  “Aye,” Catharine whispered, her eyes now closed, her head tilted back so that Charles could run his mouth teasingly up and down her neck, “Charles—”

  The doors behind them suddenly burst open and Charles and Catharine sprang apart, as if someone had thrown a pail of icy water over them, before spinning about to face the door.

  “My God,” Charles whispered.

  Louis de Silva stood there, his hands held out at his side, palm outwards, his face the epitome of despair, explaining his failure more than ever words might.

  “Louis,” Catharine said, reaching out a silk-clad arm to him.

  “I couldn’t save her,” Louis said, his voice breaking. “Weyland has her, now.”

  They sat, the three of them, on the window seat, looking out to London. Louis told them as best he could of what had happened: how he had missed Noah because the giants Gog and Magog had spirited him away to the Guildhall, there to tell him that Noah needed to go to Weyland, and that Louis had no right to stop her.

  “I had no right,” Louis said. “Me. No right.”

  “Louis—” Charles began.

  “The giants showed me a vision,” Louis said, and as he spoke, he raised eyes filled with what looked like resentment. “They showed me the Stag God, lying in a glade.”

  Charles’ face went expressionless, and, imperceptibly, he leaned back, as if putting distance between Louis and himself.

  “He lay on the floor of the glade, cruelly injured. And then you walked in, Charles, in all your majesty as England’s king, and there came a blinding flash, and when it had cleared the Stag God stood there, healed and pulsing with a glorious ancient power.”

  Catharine felt Charles’ hand tighten across her shoulders.

  “The Stag God will rise, the giants told me, and nothing else matters save that. Nothing. Not even Noah’s torture at Weyland’s hands. She shall be saved, aye, but it will be the Stag God who shall rescue her. Not me. The Stag God, Charles. You.”

  “Do you mind?” said Charles, very softly, and after a long moment’s silence, his eyes steady on Louis.

  Louis returned the stare, and then suddenly all the resentment and bitterness seemed to drain from him and his body sagged.

  “No.” Louis managed a small and infinitely sad smile. “Not truly. I would rather it were me…but you…I can accept that. Save her, Charles. Please.”

  “The Stag God shall save her, and together he and Eaving shall save the land,” said Charles.

  He reached out his hand from Catharine and put it on Louis’ shoulder. “Get some rest now, Louis. We have a great day before us tomorrow. London.”

  “And somewhere within London,” Louis whispered, still clearly distraught, “Noah. What shall she think when we ride past in golden, laughing glory, and she imprisoned in hell?”

  Much later, when Charles and Catharine were in bed, Charles sighed, and spoke sadly.

  “Louis truly should learn to read visions better.”

  Her head nestled against Charles’ naked chest, Catharine managed a small smile. “Louis was ever poor at reading vision, beloved. It is not the most widespread of arts.”

  Charles smiled, and kissed the top of her head.

  “What shall you do?” said Catharine.

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “There is a crown to accept,” he said, finally, “and I shall take it with glad heart.”

  Seven

  The Realm of the Faerie

  Night intensified over Blackheath. All was still. As Charles and his entourage slid deeper into their dreams the heath beyond the windows appeared to ripple. For an instant—so fleeting that had you blinked you would have missed it—the heath vanished and infinite rolling wooded
hills replaced it. And then the heath was back. Still. Silent.

  But altered.

  Charles lay next to Catharine. Both moved restlessly, tangling the sheets about them.

  In a chamber a little distant from the newly returned king and queen lay Louis, solitary in his bed, dreaming of Noah.

  Still asleep, Louis began to weep.

  Coel? Coel?

  He woke, startled.

  There was no one in the chamber save for himself. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then rose from the bed, tugging irritably at the sheets as they tangled about his legs.

  “Coel,” said a voice, and he looked at the Sidlesaghe who stood by the window.

  “What is happening?” said Coel—for it was Coel, his body now returned to that finer and darker one he’d worn so long ago.

  “See,” said the Sidlesaghe, “the Realm of the Faerie awaits you.”

  Coel looked through the window.

  Blackheath had vanished. Now the gentle wooded hills of the Faerie stretched into infinity beyond the windowpanes.

  “Come,” said the Sidlesaghe, “it is time. The king has returned.”

  Coel stepped forward, pausing briefly as he suddenly realised that, although he’d slept in a linen nightgown, he now wore trousers made of a fine, fitted leather. He walked through the open window, the Sidlesaghe directly behind him.

  They climbed The Naked, and as Coel climbed, so the grass to either side of him, all over the hill, flattened itself in homage. Coel slowed as he observed this, shaken. He saw then that it was not merely the grasses which paid him homage, but as he climbed, so also did the trees at the corresponding height on the other hills dip their branches in deference.

  As he climbed, so a wave of deference dipped and swayed over all the hills of the Faerie.