The Memory of Snow (10 page)

The gaggle of women cried out in shock. The girl had finally
turned. She was a danger to everyone now. She was attacking people at random.

‘Mr Hay, you shouldn’t have gone in! She’s a witch! She knows
what to do to entice people in to her. Then she kills them, like she did with
poor Alice! You’ve had a lucky escape, Mr Hay. A lucky escape indeed. Do you
need to rest, Sir? I can let you have a seat in my house?’ said Mary, hardly
daring to believe her chance may have finally come. ‘I have a warm bed, Sir.
You could lay down in it and regain your strength?’

But Charles did not respond. He turned his back on the women
and limped through the alleyway to where Jess was waiting for him, chewing her
way through the grass at the side of the track out of the village.

‘She is an enchantrix,’ muttered Charles, repeating a comment
he’d heard in Newcastle. He mounted his horse and galloped off to the manor
house, kicking her flanks and making her speed across the moors before the pain
in his back became too unbearable.

The women looked at each other.

‘What’s an enchantrix?’ asked Mary. The others shrugged. They
had no idea. Lizzie thought she knew. She also thought that she knew what had
happened in Meggie’s cottage that morning. But she said nothing. Instead, she hoisted
her mewling baby onto her shoulders and peeled away from the group, taking one
last look back at the cottage. Meggie had wasted no time. The sackcloth was
back in place, blocking her home from the outside world. She was already
lighting a smudge stick made of sage leaves to cleanse and purify her house
after Hay had defiled it.

AD 391

It was cold outside, the temperature dropping and the slushy
snow from a few days beforehand freezing over. The moon was a huge silver disc
hanging low in the sky, lighting the path through the fort towards the bath
house.

When Marcus turned the corner behind the building, a dark
shadow broke away from the wall and a solid figure blocked his path.

‘You came, then,’ said Janus. ‘I thought you would.’

‘I had to,’ said Marcus. ‘I could not let the Commandant
punish my men for a crime none of them committed. I have already decided what
to do.’ He shivered, but whether it was from fear or cold, even Marcus himself
did not know.

‘Are you going to tell him the truth?’ asked Janus.

Marcus took a deep breath.

‘I am. And before I speak to the Commandant, I needed to
speak to you, my friend. You need to understand what these people are capable
of.’

‘I am listening,’ said Janus. ‘Please. I would like to know
what happened. Am I correct in assuming that this involves the followers of
Mithras?’

Again, Marcus nodded, his shoulders sagging.

‘It does. I shall be brief. I went to the temple to be
initiated to the next rank within the cult. I missed the first date they
provided me with, so they decreed another.’

‘Why did you miss the first date?’ asked Janus. ‘It is so
important to check these things, to see the information they offer you,
surely?’

‘I missed it because of Aemelia,’ said Marcus. ‘I had taken
her down there, and I did not go in as I should have done.’

‘Hmmm. It was an auspicious day, was it not?’ asked Janus.

‘Yes. I should have gone in, or at least returned later. But
I did not.’

‘Women are not allowed in the temple,’ stated Janus. ‘I
thought you would have adhered to that rule. You should not have taken her
there.’

‘I know,’ said Marcus. He sat down on a stone bench outside
the bath house and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes in
defeat. ‘Then I went with you. And that was the day I had to return; I was to
be initiated that night.’

‘How fortuitous, then, that I made you go,’ said Janus,
sitting next to him. ‘You would have missed that date as well.’

‘So I returned for the initiation,’ continued Marcus. ‘And I
lay on the floor until the Pater came in. Then he asked me to renounce all
things Christian. I would not. I could not renounce her. So they told me I had
to perform the sacrificial ritual. And I did. But it was her, Janus. I killed
Aemelia. I stabbed her and I sliced her skull open with the gladius.’ His voice
broke and he shuddered, remembering it all too clearly.

‘Ah, Marcus,’ sighed Janus. He put his arm around his
shoulders and squeezed. ‘What a situation.’

‘I know,’ replied Marcus. He dropped his head and covered his
face with his hands. ‘I wanted to let you know before you joined the cult. To
save you from being involved. Janus, how can I tell her father that I killed
her? It is too dreadful to contemplate.’

‘You do not have to,’ said Janus. ‘I shall take care of that
issue for you.’ He pulled Marcus closer to him and, leaning towards his ear,
dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you remember what the Pater told you, my
friend? “Secrecy is paramount. Nothing which occurs here tonight may be
discussed outside the temple. Our rituals are private”. How soon you forget.
You forget also that, should you not be willing to embrace our values and
beliefs, you shall be suitably discharged from the service of Mithras. There
are no third chances, Corax. Or should I say nymphus. You did achieve the
sacrifice, after all. You have used up your last chance. Now you must face the
consequences. The Pater must deal with this disgrace and silence you.’

‘What?’ cried Marcus. ‘Janus…’ But the man’s hand came around
his mouth swiftly and blocked any noise he could have made. Marcus began to
feel dizzy as the pieces tumbled into place. He tried to struggle free, his
eyes wide and horrified. This was the ultimate betrayal. Janus had known about
his initiation before he did – he knew he was going to be made a nymphus. He had
blurted it out that time he lost his temper: and Marcus, equally heated, had
not realised. Janus knew about the wax tablet system. Marcus was willing to bet
it was not by accident he had asked him to go to the temple with him that
fateful day. A dozen other little incidents slipped into place – the
encouragement to discuss the rituals, the pressing questions. It was all a
test. A test that he had finally failed.

Marcus felt the sharp blade of a knife pressing up against
his throat as Janus twisted his head around. He began to panic, ragged breath
escaping as he strove in vain to free himself. But Janus held him fast. He was
a Prefect in the Roman Army. A trained killer.

 ‘As the sun spirals its longest dance, cleanse your
servant,’ whispered Janus. ‘As nature shows bounty and fertility, bless your
servant. Let your servant live with the true intent of Mithras, serving him
until death...’

The last conscious thought that Marcus had before the lethal
blade severed his artery, was of Aemelia.

1650

‘Hear ye, hear ye! All people that would bring in any
complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by
the person appointed!’

The crier rode ahead of the entourage. A man dressed in black
sat on a pure white horse, flanked by guards who had sworn to protect him and
bring him safe passage through the borders. This small village was on the
English side of the border, to the west of Newcastle. Cuthbert Nicholson was
anxious to visit the place, having met some members of the Hay family whilst he
was working in Newcastle. He felt assured of a night’s rest and a good meal
with the family. And if he could prove his worth in the village, it would be a
coup for him as well.

‘Hear ye! Hear ye! All people that would bring in any complaint
against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person
appointed!’ repeated the crier. ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’

The villagers who straggled around the streets stared at the
procession as it passed them. This must be the famous witch hunter they had
heard about. Women looked at one another, assessing their neighbours, wondering
whether they were harbouring a black secret.

‘We are here to help you!’ declared the crier, bringing his
horse to a stop. ‘This gentleman has been tasked with cleansing your village,
ridding it from evil. If you have any complaints of this nature, tell us. The
woman will have a fair trial and your minds will be settled!’ He looked around
the village, at the scrawny, unkempt women huddled beneath their shawls. He noted
an elderly lady; the toothless, hunched woman, who went by the name of Agnes.
He pointed at her. ‘You. Do you practice the dark arts? Do you know of anyone
in the village who practices them? You are obliged to tell us...’

‘No!’ cried Mary. She was Agnes’ daughter and ran up to her
mother, who was trembling with fear. ‘My mother is a good, gentle, kindly
woman. It is not the likes of her you need to be searching for.’ Mary looked
around at the crowd who were gathering around them. ‘I think we all know who
these gentlemen need to speak to.’ Her face hardened and she clutched onto her
mother’s arm. ‘We all know of someone who we could take to task for this.’

‘Pray tell us, young lady,’ said the crier. Mary was anything
but a ‘young lady’, but his flattery worked. She preened herself, scooping her
filthy, mousy-brown hair behind her shoulders and smiling at the man on
horseback. She flicked a glance at Nicholson.

‘Is this gentleman here to be trusted?’ she asked, suddenly
brave. ‘How can we be sure he knows what he is looking for?’

The crier smiled at her; a smile which did not reach his eyes
but melted her guard a little more.

‘My dear lady, you speak as if there is someone here who you
do not trust. Tell me. Is this person a young woman herself?’ He scanned the
crowd. There were only a couple of elderly ladies in amongst them. Experience
told him they were stalwarts of the village, central repositories of gossip.
These women, unlike some in other areas, were not at risk of accusation. The
hag’s daughter, on the other hand, looked and acted like a whore; primping and
preening herself, thrusting her breasts out unconsciously in his party’s
direction. He sensed competition for something here. A younger woman, perhaps,
who was a threat to this female.

‘Don’t tell him anything!’ A voice burst through the crowd.
The crier looked around to see who had spoke. It was another woman, in her
mid-twenties, perhaps? Two small children hung about her person and a baby
squalled on her shoulder. ‘Leave it be,’ she said, addressing the whore. ‘Don’t
do it.’

The crier ignored her. He spoke to the whore again.

‘Tell me, my lady. Is this person a charmer? An enchantrix,
perhaps? Has this person proved this to you, over and over again?’

‘Just the once that I know of,’ said Mary. ‘But she drew
blood from the young master.’

‘Of whom do you speak, when you talk of the ‘young master’?’
The man dressed in black spoke out clearly and his voice was mesmerising to the
villagers.

‘Why, Mr Hay, of course,’ replied Mary.

‘Mary...’ said the dark haired girl. ‘Stop it. You don’t know
where this is leading to.’

‘You saw it Lizzie. You saw it as well as I did,’ said Mary.
She was not going to let Meggie get away with that. ‘The poor young man, he
only went to see her to tell her he was sorry about her friend passing like she
did. And she stabbed him. She did, she stabbed him!’ said Mary, passionate now.

‘You’ve only got his story,’ said Lizzie. ‘You don’t know...’

‘Silence!’ It was the dark man on the white horse who spoke
to them. ‘I am a personal friend of young Mr Hay. Who is this girl? As my good
friend here asked you; is she a suspected charmer? An enchantrix? A witch,
perhaps? Did she lure him into her cottage with tales of woe and bewitch the
poor man?’

‘We don’t know that!’ said Lizzie, looking frantically about
her. There was that word again – enchantrix. Her sister had told her it had
something to do with witches. They lured men in and they charmed them. This is
what they were accusing Meggie of. If they arrested Meggie, she would tell them
about Lizzie and everyone would know. They would talk about her. The woman who
had carried Hay’s bastard child. Look at her, they would say. Her husband dead
less than a twelve month. Lizzie was ashamed of herself. Hay had come to her
door, allegedly bringing his condolences; she guessed he had tried the same
trick on Meggie. Only Lizzie had been weak. Then she had been forced to call on
Meggie and beg for her help.

Nicholson stared at Lizzie, saw the terror in her face and
considered for a moment. He would be interested in seeing this ‘enchantrix’
they talked about. If Hay had pursued her, she must be a good looking woman.
Hay would not approach someone he felt was less than deserving of his
attentions. He guessed the dark-haired woman had tales of her own to tell. But
he would leave her alone for now. He would concentrate on this other girl. If
that brought no joy, then he could move on to this Lizzie creature. He tried to
imagine Lizzie naked as he probed her with the needle on the end of his staff
in order to find a soft, clean spot to prick her. She would do as some gentle
amusement, he thought, but he would let her go afterwards.  Maybe do an
extra test on her, so could watch her blood flow down her white shift, then he
would declare her innocent. But he was intrigued by this other girl.

‘Yes! What was that funny word you used, Sir?
Enchant-something-or-other?’ cried Mary.

‘Enchantrix,’ replied Nicholson, curling his lip with
distaste as he looked at this stupid, ill-educated and over-confident wench.

‘Yes. That’s it. She’s an enchantrix. Mr Hay said so when he
was running away from her. He didn’t want to be there with her, he was running
like he was scared of her. Like he’d come to his senses,’ declared Mary. She
put her hands in her hips and nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. I know what she is now. It
makes sense. She does odd things, Sir. Has funny beliefs. I can tell you where
she might be if you like? If she’s not in her cottage there,’ she nodded
towards the little house with the sacking across the window, ‘then she’ll be up
on the moors, doing weird stuff with herbs and the like. She was raving that
she’d seen her friend’s ghost up there. Mad, I tell you. Mad.’

‘Or a witch,’ replied Nicholson. ‘Bell – find out from this
woman where this witch practices the dark arts. We shall track her down and
deal with her. Fret not, my dear,’ he said, bowing to Lizzie, as a man broke
away from the processions and dismounted from his horse to speak with Mary.
‘The witch will be given a fair trial. We do not deal in false accusations. We
strive to discover the truth. Good day,’ he said. He could practically feel the
three pounds he would earn from this village in his leather purse. If he didn’t
get this enchantrix they were talking about, he would get one of the others.
Either the dark-haired one, the hag or the whore. He didn’t care which one. It
would be more fun trying the younger ones though. He looked forward to the
challenge.