Caress of a Witch, page 21
part #1 of Darkness Rising - Three Series
When they were dressed and warm again before the fire in Rafe’s quarters, he asked what she had seen. She took a sip of her wine before she answered. The last passions of the rite had begun to ebb and she was weary. The sigil on her back pulsed dully, and she wondered how long she would bear its imprint, if she would ever be free of it.
‘Tom Wynter has the key,’ she said. ‘Tom will grant me access to the darkness.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, with a shrug. ‘But the goddess will guide me. I know she will.’
‘And you’ll go tonight?’ She could hear the trepidation in his voice.
‘I must. And I will go alone – I thank you for all you’ve done but you cannot help me any more.’ She took another mouthful of wine, warm and soothing against her throat, and shivered again. But the memory of the furnace that had inhabited her during the rite burned fierce and hot inside her.
‘I should come with you,’ Rafe was saying. ‘Surely it is safer with us both.’
She smoothed down the front of her skirts and swung her head towards him. ‘This is witchcraft, Rafe, not the magic you are used to. You have no weapons against its power, as I do. No witchblood you can call on. Besides, you’re needed at the Cockpit – they cannot do the play without you.’
He sighed in reluctant agreement.
‘I know you only want to help, but I must do this alone,’ she said, ‘I’ll go to the Cross Bones at dusk and meet you at the Cardinal’s Cap when it is done. Then, together, we will decide what to do about Isabella Last.’
He said nothing, but only took a drink of his wine and stared into the flames, as though he would read the answers in their depths.
22
Let’s away to prison
Rafe left Kate at the Bull’s Head with reluctance. A last embrace, and words of courage whispered in her ear. Would it be the last time he saw her? For all the latent power of Kate’s witchblood, Isabella was a formidable foe, and fear for Kate trailed at his heels. Shaking his head to rid his mind of the thought of it, he threaded quickly through the crowds that had gathered on the bridge as travellers hurried this way and that to beat the closing of the gates.
There was nothing more he could have done to help her, he told himself. The rite they had done had given her the knowledge she needed and he could do no more, but his spirit still chafed as he stepped off the bridge and into the city, winding his way through the darkening afternoon towards the theatre. The others would be waiting for him as they readied for the evening’s performance, anxious and fretting. He should have been with them all day – pacing out the scenes, measuring the distances for the stage, last-minute rehearsals. He imagined their increasing dismay at his absence, for they had no other actor to call upon to play the part without him.
‘Good of you to join us at last,’ John Lowin observed with a shake of his head, when Rafe finally stepped through the door. ‘We had all but given you up for lost.’
‘My apologies,’ he replied, with a dip of his head. ‘I was delayed.’ Then he hurried through the empty theatre towards the tiring room behind the stage to change into Prospero’s robes.
A little later, as the first of the playgoers trickled through the doors and began to take their seats, Rafe peered out from the balcony above the stage to watch. It was a wealthier crowd than he was used to – courtiers, merchants, and gentlemen with their ladies in fine-coloured silks, jewels glinting in the light of a myriad of candles that burned against the walls. This audience preferred the indoor comforts of the Cockpit to the uncertain weather of the old playhouses on Bankside, and they relished the risk of their small rebellion against the Puritans. The whole theatre echoed with the hubbub of voices and boots, chair legs scraping on the boards, coughs, and the rustle of fabric as people shifted and fussed, greeting friends, getting comfortable. He marvelled at how so many people knew to come when they had passed the word so discreetly. John Lowin’s work, he guessed, with his network of contacts built over all his years in the business of plays. He admired them for coming. In these days it took courage to defy the rules – parliament’s punishment was swift and severe.
The seats filled quickly, and when every one was taken and still more people were standing at the back behind them, the boys who had collected the entrance money closed and barred the doors. Then, with a nod to the youth who handled the props, Rafe left his vantage point in the balcony and hurried down the stairs to await his entrance in the tiring house. The first clap of thunder came just as he reached it, and the first players strode out upon the stage.
The audience gasped at the sudden crash and shifted in their seats, worldly cares abruptly forgotten. Another clap, and though he had known it was coming, Rafe too, flinched at the sound, his nerves on edge. Briefly, he sent a thought towards Kate. She would be at the graveyard now, facing Isabella in some unknown way he could not imagine, and he had to struggle to bring his mind back to the world of the play that was just beginning on the stage beyond the tiring room curtain. It seemed to have lost all its power to enchant him, and the realisation saddened him. Time was when the realm of the playhouse’s magic had offered him the world.
‘Boatswain!
Here, master. What cheer?
Good – speak to th’ mariners. Fall to’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground. Bestir, bestir!’
But the first lines had barely even been uttered when a sudden mighty crash at the doors at the back of the theatre silenced the players mid-speech. Beneath his make-up Rafe felt the colour leach from his face, and the illusion of the play’s world was shattered in a moment. The actors were actors no more, but a haphazard group of dazed men in costume, startled into sudden wariness. Rafe swung a glance to the others as first one soldier then another stepped through the doors into the theatre, and he saw his own fear reflected in their eyes. Though they had all known the risks, they had still hoped to escape the authorities’ notice. Did the sheriff not have more important matters to concern him when the fate of the King hung in the balance? He thought of King Charles in a gaol cell, awaiting certain death. Would the players meet the same end? There would be no clean blade for the likes of them to sever their heads from their neck. No, they would be dropped from a gallows, to kick and struggle as their last breaths were choked from their bodies. They would die as Tom Wynter had died, and he suppressed a shudder at the prospect, schooling his face to calm defiance. They were actors, after all, and perhaps this would be their greatest role.
Women in the audience began to scream, getting to their feet in panic. Stools and benches tipped and fell as the crowd milled, their exit blocked by the phalanx of guards. Men’s voices rose in shouts, and scuffles began to break out as soldiers tried to lay hands on those who would evade them. On stage, two of the players turned to flee, heading for the door that led from the tiring house, but more troops had filled the space behind them and there was nowhere for them to run. They stopped, trapped, as the soldiers stepped forward to apprehend them.
‘You are under arrest!’ A voice boomed above the riot. ‘By order of Parliament.’
The audience hesitated and a small group close to the door made a run for it. On the stage, soldiers marched forward and began to grasp the players one by one. Instinctively, Rafe struggled against the grip of the man who held him until a pike was lowered, forcing him to stillness though the rage still seethed, heartbeat hammering, fury in his blood. All of them resisted, all of them fought, until one of the soldiers, growing frustrated, backhanded Rafe across the face. He fell like a stone and he stayed down for a moment, wiping the blood from his mouth as he struggled to suppress the desire to retaliate, to launch himself to his feet and set upon the man who had struck him. From the audience, a woman’s high wail of fear carried above the disquiet, eerie and unsettling.
A rough hand hauled him back to standing. He could taste the metal of the blood in his mouth, and when the man’s grip tightened around the muscle of his arm, it was instinct to jerk away. But another soldier moved in on the other side of him so that he was trapped between them. The audience began to quieten with the realisation that they were not the ones in danger, but they wavered still, caught in the indecision of their fear. Then a couple of merchants in thick black velvets near the back turned and began to run, breaking the spell. The whole audience pressed towards the door, pushing and shoving, voices rising once more in anger and fear and pain as feet were trampled and skirts ripped in the crush. Rafe watched them go for a moment before the soldiers began to lead the players away, boots loud on the boards as they tramped their authority in unison. Risking a glance behind him, Rafe saw that a few of the guards had remained behind, searching through the props and costumes in the tiring house, gathering them up. Stealing them, no doubt, a wardrobe that had once clothed Shakespeare and Burbage and Edward Alleyn. He spat a gob of blood onto the stage, and one of the men who held him tightened his grasp, forcing Rafe’s shoulder up into an unnatural angle that spasmed with pain.
‘No more misdoing from you,’ the man growled, and Rafe could only acquiesce as he was led out with the others into the winter night, the bitter chill biting easily through the fine linen robe that was all he was wearing. All of them, taken in the clothes they had been wearing on the stage: Simon, in Miranda’s skirts that swayed as he walked, and John Lowin in a silk and velvet robe that dragged in the dirt behind him.
23
We know what we are, but know not what we may be
On her way to the Cross Bones Kate skirted the market, oblivious to the dangers that lurked in the darkening passages, and when a rough hand grabbed at her arm she was so startled that she lashed out instinctively, bringing her hand hard against the man’s face, sending him reeling in surprise. He swore and lunged after her but she had picked up her skirts and run before he fully regained his balance. She could hear him yelling, and the words dirty whore echoed off the buildings.
In the bustle of the High Street she felt safer. The road was vivid with life – travellers making a last-minute dash for the bridge and the bright conviviality of the inns and taverns spilling out into the street. Beggars patrolled, rich pickings to be had, and a one-legged man plucked at her sleeve as she passed.
‘I lost it fighting for the King, miss. Can you help an old soldier?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I have nothing to give you. I wish I did.’
He must have seen the truth in her face because he touched his forehead in respect and said, ‘Bless you, miss,’ before limping away on a rough-fashioned crutch to try someone else.
It was quieter on Red Cross Street, with few people abroad, and the graveyard was silent and shrouded in the growing gloom of the dusk. At the gate Kate paused, heaviness seeping through her limbs, remembering the last time she had come here. Instinctively, she looked behind her, head tilted to listen, but she could hear nothing but the soft whisper of her own breath and far-off voices that carried in drifts on the wind. A woman’s high laugh blew past her in a snatch.
Swallowing, and holding the vision from the rite in the centre of her thoughts, Kate put her shoulder to the gate and shoved it open wide enough to slip through the gap. Then she paused and scanned the darkness as her eyes picked out the squares of inky black and the paler grey that marked the way between them. In her mind’s eye she could see the yew tree beyond that marked her grandfather’s grave, and she trod softly towards it, setting down each foot with care in the gathering dark, hoping she had remembered aright. But her memory served her well, and when she reached the grave she sank to her knees beside it.
‘Help me, Tom.’
Her whisper sounded loud in the silence.
‘The spirits told me that you have the key to save my mother. Will you help me?’
She waited, eyes closed, seeing the image of him in her mind as he had come to her in the vision, pale as mist and beautiful, with blue-grey eyes that gazed from realms beyond the living. Such charm and beauty as he had never seen, John Lowin had said. But now, with his form once more before her thoughts, she noticed for the first time the dark welts on his neck, scars from the rope that had taken his life, and when she opened her eyes again she knew that he was with her – she could sense the ghost of his presence in the darkness.
‘You must call on your power,’ she heard, ‘and walk in the Shadow.’
She was silent.
‘You doubt me.’
‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.
‘There is much you do not yet understand. But my blood runs in your veins. Trust me.’
Kate touched her hand to her own neck, imagining the tightening of a rope and the slow restriction of her breath, the final gasps for life. Instinctively, she reached towards the headstone as though to wipe away the hurt, and her fingertips brushed against something smooth and cool just beneath the surface of the earth at its base. Something that had not been there before. She scrabbled to uncover it, her fingernails filling with cold dirt and grit until she had prised it free from its hiding place. She held it up and examined it. It was a poppet, the wax figure of a woman, pale and lifelike. She ran her fingertips across the tiny face and remembered Isabella moulding the shape of it in the candlelit attic, the cold glimmer in her eyes as she caressed the soft wax to form the woman’s body. A woman that owed her something, she had said.
Mary, Kate realised now. Her mother. To be buried in some unclean place. Here, she had meant, at the Cross Bones, where the souls of the sinful and the damned were laid to rest. Her hand closed around it.
‘What must I do?’
‘You must journey to the Shadow and bring Mary home. She still has a part to play. But make haste. Time is short.’
Kate scrambled to her feet and stood for a moment beside the grave. Taking long slow breaths to calm herself, she reached deep into her being to unearth the knowledge and the courage she needed. For what seemed like an age she felt only the weight of her ignorance and the fear that she would fail. How could she defeat so powerful a witch, when she had learned so little? How could her inexperience possibly match Isabella’s lifelong knowledge? It was a most unfair battle, and the shadow of despair threatened to fall. She fingered the poppet, almost paralysed with indecision.
Trust. She heard Tom Wynter’s voice once more. Let your witchblood guide you. It will lead you truly.
Closing her eyes, she let his voice envelop her, surrounding her like a caress. Then she tied her thoughts to her breath as Isabella had taught her, and slowly she began to feel the first light shimmer in her blood, a soft thrum that ran in her veins. Her hand tightened around the poppet as the vibration began to well, rising into the beat of a drum, power surging through her.
She opened her eyes and, to her surprise, Tom was there before her, beautiful and pale and smiling, real and bright as day. Bowing his head in a nod of satisfaction as Kate gave herself over to the instinct that was running now in her blood, he faded once more into the night. She smiled in return, glad for the reassurance of his presence. She was not alone, after all, and the knowledge of it lent her courage.
Tucking the poppet into her bodice to keep it safe, she began to search the ground around her, hunting for sticks and branches to fashion a circle. Working quickly now, surer of herself, she laid the sticks end to end to encircle the tree and the grave. Her fingers stiffened with the cold, fingertips blackened with soil, and the wood became harder to hold but she barely noticed, intent on her task.
When the circle was complete at last she stood in its centre, and she was aware of the hum of her blood, imbued once again with the spirit of magic, roaring with connection to all that is, was and ever will be. She paced the edge of the circle, but her feet barely seemed to touch the ground, her whole being buoyed by the call of her witchblood. The same surge of power ran through her as on that night at the crossroads when she had first set eyes on Hecate: she was a witch of ancient blood, brim-full of her ancestors’ knowledge. And as she turned to each quarter to call to the guardians, the words came to her lips with surprising ease: it was as if she had known them all her life.
‘I call you, spirit of the air, guardian of the East, to watch and protect us …’
When she had called to each of the quarters, she felt safer within the circle of their protection. Then she laid out the candles she had brought and, with a flick of her fingers, conjured them into light. Amazed by this power she hadn’t known she possessed, she almost laughed with delight as she knelt again by the grave. She still had no clear understanding of what was to come but she trusted now to Tom’s presence and the instinct that resided in her blood to show her the way.
‘Maiden, Mother, Crone,’ she called out. ‘Guardian of the Crossroads, Keeper of the Keys.
I call on you now to open the doorway and light up the path that leads to the Shadow.
I have nothing to offer but the courage in my heart and the love I bear my mother.
Guide me to her. Let me free her from the fortune teller’s grasp.’
She waited, hoping she had done right. Questions arose in her thoughts and she pushed them aside – there was no time for doubts. She needed to be certain and strong, to feel the pulse of her witchblood.
‘Show me what I must do.’
‘Trust.’ She heard Tom’s voice close beside her. ‘Do as you must. Hecate will guide you.’
Slowly, the silent dark began to come alive. At the edges of her vision she glimpsed shapes like the shadows that haunted the corners of the Wounded Raven. Pale lights hovered in the air, glowing, and between them glimmered eyes that watched her, the eyes of no earthly creatures. A mist rose, curling its fingers through and around the shadows, and from somewhere close by there came the high-pitched call of a screech owl. Kate closed her eyes and shuddered, terror in every fibre.
