Caress of a Witch, page 22
part #1 of Darkness Rising - Three Series
Forcing herself to open her eyes, she saw a new light. A curious glow glimmered in the trunk of the tree before her as though she were seeing firelight through a crack in a door. The tree from her vision, she realised, the gate to the Shadow. It welcomed her, drawing her in. A world within the tree? She reached forward, tentative fingers brushing the bark to touch the warmth, and with the movement she began to tumble into blackness.
Over and over, falling, the endless descent of nightmares. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged, and though she flailed her limbs in desperate search of something to grasp, her hands found only the air, fingers curling but touching nothing. The fall seemed to last forever and when finally she landed, unhurt, she found herself in a world that was like nowhere she had ever been in her waking life – a forest of darkness with ash underfoot, trees without leaves, gnarled and dead, and above her a sky that pulsed, blood-red oozing through cracks in a dark haze of smoke. Fear gripped her innards as she realised it was the world of her childhood nightmares, where the old man had stalked her. Her mouth was gritty and the taste of the air was acrid. Was this the Shadow? The realm of her forebears? It was not as she had imagined it. How could such a foul place be the source of a witch’s power? Then she remembered that she was in a world of the dead and the departed, a memory of the past. It was the realm of spirit, an otherworld, home to the gods, demons and ghosts – it was no place for the living.
‘Tom?’
There was no answer, and her spirit quivered with the realisation that now she was alone. Perhaps he could not follow where she had gone. Perhaps he did not want to. Lifting her gaze to take in the desolation before her, her eyes lit on a movement a little distance away.
A shadow that shifted. Eyes in the dark.
As above, so below.
Calling on every last ounce of courage in her heart and drawing herself upright, she lifted her chin, eyes skyward.
‘I am a witch of ancient blood,’ she said, and wondered if the Shadow would hear the tremble in her voice. ‘And I claim rite of passage in the Shadow.’
Dark shapes flitted through the trees around her, and she waited. She should have brought an offering, she thought. Wine, or honey, or blood. But she had not even a knife to cut herself. The shapes seemed to swarm closer, settling into human shapes, dark-robed, pale-faced. Eyes flashed red through the gloom.
‘I come naked,’ she said, surprised by the words she found on her tongue, ‘with nothing to give but all that I am – my blood, my heart, my spirit. It is yours. All I ask in return is for the spirit of Mary Winter to be returned to the world of the living.’
A whisper flickered all around her, like a breath of wind through winter branches.
‘In her stead, I give you this poppet.’
She held the wax doll high above her head in both hands, and wheeled very slowly so that the spirits on all sides of her could see its form, though she guessed they saw with eyes that needed no direct line of sight. The whisper seemed to flicker closer, filling the air with the echo of its hiss, until all her thoughts were suspended in its vibration. The drum of her witchblood threatened to fall away, fear dragging once more at her limbs, but in spite of it she forced her arms to remain aloft and her feet to still keep turning, the poppet bargain still defiantly in play. Her head began to pulse with the din of the voices that filled it, pain like a band around her temples, deafening, until her body began to sway, giving way before the onslaught. What did they want from her?
With one last mighty effort of will, she found the strength to ask again.
‘Will you set Mary Winter’s spirit free?’
The hiss diminished, as if shocked into quiet by her words, and she waited, barely breathing, the poppet still held tight in her hands. Her arms ached with the effort of holding it up, but slowly she realised the doll was softening between her fingers so that the shape of the woman was becoming blurred and indistinct in her hands. Wax began to drip through her fingers, warm as it ran across her skin, and she lowered her arms and held out what was left of the poppet before her. The liquid dropped to the ground at her feet until nothing more of it remained beyond a memory of its warmth against her skin.
‘I thank you,’ she said, and the words that came to her lips seemed to issue from somewhere deep inside her – the instinct of her witchblood. ‘I wish now to depart this place. I thank you for letting me pass. Show me how to return to the realm of the living, and I will trouble you no more.’
Nothing stirred. A deeper silence breathed through the forest, and Kate’s innards contracted in sudden terror that she was trapped – that the Shadow had taken her spirit in exchange for her mother and the poppet had meant nothing after all. She waited, heartbeat quick, mouth dry. Then, she began to wheel slowly once more, eyes searching the gloom for she knew not what. Behind her, alone amongst the dead and ashy trees, she saw a vast and ancient yew she had not noticed before. How could she have missed it? A gnarled and knotty trunk with heavy branches that bowed to the ground to meet a carpet of needles that covered the earth at its roots. Hope sparked. It was a beacon of life and light, bright with the ancient sap of ages – she had only ever seen such majesty in dreams. She stepped towards it, reverent and in awe as she placed her palm against one of the branches, feeling the living warmth against her skin.
‘Take us home,’ she whispered. ‘Great and ancient yew. Take us home.’
She stood back and waited, running her eyes across the folds of bark, hollows unnumbered, until a small glimpse of light flickered between the roots, growing like a fire that has just been lit and shedding a glow that seemed to spread, inviting. She watched as the source widened, a door opening, beckoning until, without making a conscious decision to go, she found herself stepping through.
Then, nothing.
24
Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low
Kate woke startled, disorientated, unsure of her whereabouts. She stared about her then shivered, suddenly aware of the cold. She was at the Cross Bones, she remembered, kneeling as she had been when she entered the Shadow, and Tom’s grave was beside her. Above her, a narrow moon was close to setting, shadows long across the cemetery. Mary was nowhere to be seen and Kate hoped her mother’s spirit had returned to her body. Was she waking up now at the Cardinal’s Cap, surprised and wondering how she had got there? There was so much Kate needed to ask, a whole story waiting to be told.
Around her, she could see the outline of the protective circle she had made. She must open it, she thought, and dismiss the guardians who had kept her safe. She turned, following the edge of the circle with her eyes for a moment, before her blood seemed to freeze with foreboding. Her breath quickened as her eyes searched the darkness of the graveyard. Another moment, and she saw him.
Nathan, his pale face just visible in the dim light beyond the circle’s edge, was watching her.
Her breath left her body in a gasp as dread swept again through her veins. She stumbled to her feet, legs numb from the cold and refusing to move, but even as she staggered, she kept her gaze pinned to him. He was observing her, an odd smile on his face, and though her first fear was that he would try to force himself on her again, it took only the length of a heartbeat to realise he had a different plan. She followed his gaze as it traced the line of the circle and, with a surge of horror, she understood.
He meant to denounce her as a witch.
Instinctively she raised a hand to touch her neck, remembering the welts on Tom’s throat where the rope had burned as it choked the breath from his body. She shuddered, the chill of terror colder than the winter night, reaching deeper inside. Nathan stepped forward into the circle, heedless of its sanctity, and though Kate made to run, her legs and feet failed to respond, half-frozen. He grabbed her arm, fingers vice-like on the muscle. She would have more bruises come morning. Then he leaned in close and she could smell the sour ale on his breath.
‘Think you could get the better of me, eh?’ he murmured. ‘You’re just a girl.’
She fought against his grip and twisted her head away from him but he tightened his hold, wrenching her arm with a vicious jerk that sent a spasm of pain through her shoulder.
‘But they’ll hang a girl just the same, you know. If she’s a witch.’
She fought again, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her submission, and he dragged her closer against his body until all her senses were suffused with the stale unwashed scent of him, the putrefying cut on his cheek. Unlaundered clothes and damp, ale and tobacco, and underneath it all a taint of something sweeter she recognised as the smell of Isabella.
‘I’ve sent a boy to the constable,’ he said. ‘So enjoy your last moments of the sky above you, earth beneath your feet. Not long till you’re swinging from a rope and then eternity in Hell.’
Kate struggled again against his hold but his grip was firm. Unable to free herself from his grasp, she spat instead into his face. Enraged, he didn’t even pause to wipe the spittle away before he brought his hand across her cheek, striking her to the ground. She could taste the blood on her lip, but she smiled up at him regardless, pleased to have goaded him in spite of the punishment she knew was to follow. He grabbed her hair and hauled her back to her feet, and she yelped with the pain of it tearing at her scalp as he gripped her jaw between the fingers of one hand and, tipping her face up to look at him, placed his mouth on hers. She fought to free herself as his tongue forced its way into her mouth, and he dragged harder at her hair until she was forced to be still. He gave a low laugh, let go of her jaw and reached to her skirts, ravelling them up to search out the flesh of her thighs and the soft triangle between them, his fingers hard and rough against her skin.
‘Touch me there and I’ll curse you,’ she spat. ‘You’ll never tup anyone again.’
It was not a curse she knew how to do but it had its effect – he understood the power of magic well enough to be afraid, and he let her skirts drop once more to the ground.
Men’s voices and the sound of running feet turned him away from her to peer into the dark. But he kept his hold on her hair and she had no choice but to submit. Torches and lanterns approached, bobbing in the cold air as the flames twisted through the dark, and the pale shadows from the moon faded as the lights came closer. Nathan watched and waited, and in the pause she called to Tom in her head.
Help me. Or I will meet the same end as you.
Have faith, she heard. Trust.
Then the guards were upon them and she blinked in the brightness of the torches, the men’s faces in shadow behind the flames. Nathan showed them the circle and she saw the hatred in their glances towards her. Though she drew some satisfaction from their fear of her, she knew it would do her no good in the end. Ignorance brings out the worst in men – witches had died agonising deaths all through history because of it.
Two men approached her, looking her up and down, appraising. She saw the disgust in the eyes of the older one, sweat on his upper lip from the exertion of the run to arrest her, and the open curiosity in the face of the other.
‘Ain’t you never seen a witch before?’ the older man said.
He shook his head. ‘I never thought they’d be so young and pretty. Thought they was all old and wrinkled.’
‘The Devil is cunning,’ the other man said. ‘Don’t be fooled. She’s rotten underneath. There are no words for the perversions that pretty face is hiding.’
Kate said nothing but gave the young man a small smile. She saw him fight the temptation to return it, a young man’s natural reply to a pretty woman, but when he grasped her arm as he was told, his grip was still pitiless. Then, between them, the two men dragged her out of the circle and across the graveyard towards the gate. On the way, she managed to cast a single look behind her towards Tom’s grave and the yew tree, where she thought she saw a wisp of the image of her grandfather’s ghost. But she may have merely imagined it, the hopeful vision of a frightened mind. For all her bravado on the outside, she was shaking in her core.
They half dragged, half carried her to the Justice of the Peace, and Kate fought them all the way so that when they arrived and the Justice’s housekeeper opened the door they threw her with relief to the hall floor at her feet. The old woman stifled a scream of startlement as she leaped back, and Kate looked up to see a lined face staring down at her in horror. She would have thought a Justice’s housekeeper would be more used to such things.
‘Is your master home?’ The constable’s voice rang loud in the quiet house.
‘He is,’ the woman replied. ‘I will fetch him.’ She slid an uneasy glance at the prisoner before she swung away, skirts whispering on the rush mats that covered the flagstones. Kate rubbed at one knee where she had landed before the young guard helped her once more to her feet. She gave him a small, grateful smile for his kindness and saw the flush across his cheek. But she kept her head tilted away from Nathan, who stood watching her with malice in his eyes. A shudder ran through her – he would see her dead if he could, and with every breath she felt the noose at her throat draw tighter.
The housekeeper returned. ‘This way.’
Kate let the young guard guide her along the hall to a large room at the back of the house where a great fire burned in the biggest fireplace she had ever seen. A coat of arms hung above the mantel, three foxes and a chough on a background of gold and blue. Shelves full of books and ledgers lined one wall, and behind a great oak desk sat the Justice. He was younger than she had expected, with dark curls that hung to his shoulders, and pale, intelligent eyes beneath mobile brows. He was no Puritan, that much she could tell from the fine velvets he wore, sable grey, and a little spark of hope kindled inside her – her prettiness must surely be in her favour with such a man. But still, her fate hung in his hands and if she read him wrong her life would be forfeit. Lowering her eyes, she was careful to seem demure before him.
‘What have we here?’ He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his chest, contemplating her.
‘A witch, sir,’ the constable replied. ‘Caught in the act of summoning. In a circle in a graveyard when we found her.’
The Justice tilted his head, interested. ‘And who accuses her?’
Nathan stepped forward. ‘I do.’
‘Of what, exactly?’
Nathan lifted a hand to the knife wound across his cheek.
‘This, your lordship,’ he said, voice wheedling and subservient, a tone she had not heard from him before. She glared at him with contempt. ‘It has not healed, just as she promised. It festers. She cursed me because I would not lie with her.’
The Justice turned to Kate. ‘Is this true?’
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
‘Speak, girl,’ the Justice demanded.
‘It is not true,’ she said, lifting her eyes to meet her questioner for the first time. He held her gaze for a moment, and though she saw intelligence in their depths there was little kindness, and the flicker of hope guttered in her belly. She couldn’t think how best to play this game that offered her life as prize.
Tom, she thought, but this time she heard no answer.
‘Yet you were found within a circle in a graveyard, were you not?’
‘I did not curse this man,’ she said. ‘I’ve done harm to no one.’
‘Then what were you about at the Cross Bones, my dear? What game were you playing?’
‘I was visiting my grandparents’ graves. I … I … hoped for their counsel … it was a foolish attempt … I have never done such a thing before.’
The Justice let out a long sigh. ‘And who were your grandparents?’
‘Tom Wynter, sir. And Sarah Chyrche.’
‘And your parents?’
Kate hesitated, and for a moment she felt herself begin to sway with fatigue and fear. Tightening her muscles, curling her toes, she forced herself to stand straight, to think.
‘My father is dead,’ she said. ‘And my mother …’ How could she explain? She said, ‘I left my mother in The Hague.’
The Justice observed her, apparently alert to her weariness and her hesitation. He said, ‘And you travelled from The Hague for the purpose of finding your grandparents?’
‘I travelled in the service of a lady, sir. As her maid and seamstress.’
‘How know you this man?’ He gave a lazy gesture of his hand towards Nathan, who ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. Like a snake she thought. Venomous.
‘He is also in the lady’s service.’
‘I see.’
‘She killed her father, sir,’ Nathan said then. ‘So that she might follow me to England.’
The Justice considered this, the steeple of fingers tapping against his lips. Then he rose to his feet in one languid movement.
‘All of you, out,’ he said. ‘Except her.’ He pointed a long finger towards Kate’s chest with a movement that seemed to arrest the beating of her heart. She swallowed, held her breath, and waited as the others shuffled out of the door. The door clicked shut behind them and the Justice rounded the desk to lean his hips against it just in front of her. She kept her eyes lowered, wary.
‘What is your name, girl?’
‘Kate Winter, sir.’
‘Well, Miss Winter, I can tell you I believe not one word of the tale you have told. You were found inside a circle of magic in a graveyard at night, and whatever fantastic story you may concoct for the reasons, the facts are plain. You were engaged in an act of witchcraft. Do you deny it?’
‘I harmed no one, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘I only wanted the counsel of my grandparents.’
‘You knew how to cast a circle, knew how to raise their spirits, and yet you claim it was not witchcraft?’
