The Memory of Snow (12 page)

1650

‘So, this is our enchantrix?’ barked the man on horseback. He
dismounted, dropping easily to the ground. The man next to him took the reins
of the horse from him and led it away to graze in the field next to the Well.

‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand,’ said Meggie. The snow was
falling faster now, but her shivers had less to do with the wintry weather and
more to do with the panic that was closing in around her. ‘What do you mean?’

The man ignored her. He was swathed in a black robe which
flapped around his body in the Northumbrian wind. He carried a staff in his
hand. Meggie noticed it was carved with all sorts of strange symbols. For some
reason, even though the symbols were Christian in design, the staff terrified
her. It had a feeling of evil about it. Meggie’s sixth sense told her it had
tortured and killed; it was soaked in the blood of many people. She looked at
it in horror. The man laughed softly and curled his fingers around it tighter.

‘She looks at my staff in distaste. She knows what it can
prove. Tell me, what is your name girl?’

Meggie’s mouth worked but no words would come out.

‘Speak up, girl,’ barked the man. He cupped his hand around
his ear and leaned closer to her. ‘I am listening. If you cannot tell me your
identity, you will hinder your chances of freedom. I would hate to think I had
the wrong person here. I have been charged with finding a witch. Do you
understand?’

‘A ...witch?’ said Meggie. Her voice was cracked and
breathless. ‘Then, Sir, I am not the person you seek.’

‘Oh, you have a voice. That is good. And why do you dispute
the claims?’

‘Because I am not a witch, Sir,’ she said.

‘Not a witch? Then why are you here? This is a pagan place of
worship. This place stinks of the dark arts. You, my girl, stink of the dark
arts. I think you are lying to me.’

‘No, Sir! No! I am not a witch. I work with nature, I work
with herbs and the goodness Mother Earth provides. I help people, I ease
people’s suffering, I...’

‘She takes lives!’ called someone from the back of the group.
The men turned. It was a young man called John. He was a farm labourer; Meggie
knew he had always harboured a secret love for Alice. Meggie and Alice had
giggled over it, talked about his small offerings of love – a posy of
wildflowers left on Alice’s doorstep, a fresh apple, polished and plucked from
a tree, drawn from his apron and given to Alice as he blustered and blushed an
excuse...

‘John! You know that’s not true!’ cried Meggie. ‘What
happened to Alice was...’

‘It was murder!’ cried another man.

‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘Please, no. It wasn’t. It was a
mistake...’ she stopped short as the words of the Roman soldier came back to
her. It was a mistake. There have been too many mistakes. She rammed her fist
in her mouth and choked back a sob. ‘John. You know that’s not true, I beg
you.’

Nicholson smiled down at Meggie.

‘So. We have a young lady here who denies murder. Can she
also deny encouraging a man into her abode and attacking him? Drawing blood
from an innocent?’

‘She used it in a spell!’ yelled another man. Meggie
recognised him as Robert, Mary’s husband; the stupid, deluded idiot, she
thought. Mary was the village whore and he pretended he knew nothing about it.

‘No! He attacked me!’ she shouted back.

‘My wife told me otherwise!’ Robert called, enjoying the
moment, He was a small, thin man whose arms and legs seemed to belong to a
different person.

‘Your wife should walk around the village with a straw
mattress strapped to her back!’ cried Meggie, all reason deserting her. ‘It
would save her time!’

‘Silence!’ boomed Nicholson. ‘You are an evil woman. You
denigrate the women of the village. You cast spells using the blood of
innocents. You cause harm to men, women and livestock...’

‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘You’re lying! I’ve never harmed
livestock..’

‘By that, you have admitted you harm men and women,’ roared
Nicholson.

‘No!’ cried Meggie, ‘I’ve never intentionally harmed
anyone!’        

‘But you have harmed people!’ pressed Nicholson. ‘Admit it,
Witch. You have harmed people.’

‘I...’

‘Admit it!’

‘Yes, oh please, yes I have. But I never meant it. I never
meant to do it. Alice, my dear, sweet Alice; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ sobbed
Meggie. She crumpled to the floor and pressed her face into the cold, wet
grass. There was a thin layer of snow on it now and her cheek was so cold, it
felt as if was burning. ‘Coventina, blessed Coventina. Goddess of snow, goddess
of this place, please help me. Please help me...’ she wept into the sacred
ground. An image flitted through her mind of the people who had lived here
before, who had worshipped at this Well, who had trod the very grass she was
lying on. Had Coventina helped them? Would she find it in her heart to help
Meggie?

On the fort at Carrawburgh, another figure appeared. It was a
man on horseback, looking down at the drama below him. He would wait a little
while, he thought, and see what happened. He shivered, then flinched as the
shiver jarred his back. He pulled his velvet coat closer to him and looked at
the sky. The snow was in for the day. After this was over, it would be nice to
go to a local hostelry for a little mulled wine and company, he thought. But he
would wait a while and observe it all from up here.

AD 391

An unsettled silence descended on the area, the night
following the desecration of the shrines and temple. The people in the vicus
were subdued, having been forced to give up the shrines to their household gods
as well as the soldiers giving up theirs in the barracks. Titus had ordered
spot checks on the men, to ensure no relics of Paganism remained in the fort.
The delights of Aelia and her sisters, the gambling dens and taverns of the
vicus held no pull for the soldiers that evening. The bath house was busy;
especially in the hot rooms, where the men tried to thaw themselves out and
relax after the physical demands of the day.

Janus kept out of the way. He sensed that the rumour mill was
grinding and he would not be particularly welcome in the social areas of the
fort that evening. He would let them get it out of their system and talk
amongst themselves. He would make amends with them over the next few days. He
had not lived a double life all this time without learning a few things. It was
amazing what some charm and some half-truths could achieve. He was not unduly
concerned. And he would deal with Lucius and the Commandant efficiently when
the time came. He just had to wait it out, that was all. He slipped out of his
quarters to go for a walk around the edges of the fort. It would burn off some
of his adrenalin and help him think.

Janus wandered around the fort, blowing on his hands, trying
to warm them up in the silvery glow of the moon. He found himself behind the
stables, where he had met Marcus last night. Had it only been last night? He
stood by the bench where they had sat, and stared at it. He had done a
surprisingly good job of cleaning it up. He had covered the ground with straw
afterwards. It had soaked up the worst of the blood, and he burnt it in the
furnace to get rid of it. A new covering of straw and a fresh snowfall had
covered everything else. He sat down on the bench for a moment, watching a
couple of men walk by. He sat very still so they did not see him in the
shadows, then he leaned his head back against the wall of the building and
closed his eyes. It had been a long, difficult day.

The man Syrus moved quickly and silently. He was a slave; he
was unobtrusive. Nobody noticed him. But what they did not realise, was that he
was a trained killer himself. His men had been defeated by Titus Perpetuus’
troops several years ago. He had been taken prisoner and designated a slave. He
could have prevented what had happened to Aemelia, had Titus only listened to
him. Instead, he assigned him to other duties and gave Aemelia a female slave
the day before it happened. Syrus had tried to explain to his master about the
young Prefect who sought his daughter out, but Titus waved him away; other
business was more pressing. Syrus had known the fair young man was no danger.
He could see genuine affection between the two of them. It was the dark man he
did not trust.

He did not know exactly what had happened; Titus had
reclaimed Syrus for some other purpose, not even realising his daughter and her
new slave were missing. But later that night, he had seen the dark man enter
the temple; heard the noises from within, and watched the procession of stunned
men leave the temple afterwards, muttering in horror about what they had just
witnessed. Syrus had not yet found Olivia. He did not think that he ever would.
But he was an intelligent man and knew that, whatever secrets the temple held
the dark man was the keeper of them; and Syrus cursed his master for neglecting
to listen to him.

And now the dark man was sitting on the bench where he had
murdered his friend. Syrus had seen that as well, hidden in the shadows;
unobtrusive and unnoticed. Silently, the slave flicked a blade from out of his
clothing and moved towards the man on the bench.

In a moment, it was done. The dark man’s body slumped to the
ground and lay in a pool of blood until the next morning, when the early watch
found him. More rumours spread throughout Carrawburgh, with some version of the
truth amongst them all. But nobody ever knew for sure what had happened or who
had killed Janus. Some said it was the Commandant. Some said it was another
member of the cult. Some even said it was the shade of Marcus, come back for
his revenge. Nothing was ever proven.

But the temple, the Sacred Well and the shrine to the water
nymphs would never be restored. They would fall into disrepair, swallowed up
and reclaimed by the earth. The Roman Empire collapsed and the soldiers were
moved away from Britannia. What was left of the shrines and their secrets would
be discovered again one day. But not for centuries.

1650

It happened so fast, that at first she was unaware of it.
Whilst Meggie lay sobbing on the snow-covered grass a group of men appeared by
her side and roughly hauled her to her feet. They pulled her shawl off her, and
yanked her hands around to the front of her body. They bound her wrists with
thick, scratchy rope. The rope dug into her skin, ugly, red weals appearing
where it bit into her. They dragged her towards Nicholson who looked down on
her with contempt.

‘She is a suspected charmer, enchantrix and witch,’ he
intoned. ‘We grant this woman fair trial by pricking. If she bleeds, she is not
guilty of the aforesaid crimes. If she does not bleed, she shall be dealt with
as befits a servant of the Devil. We shall take her to the old temple and try her
there. The weather puts in, my friends. The snow is falling thickly and we must
take shelter.’ He indicated the ruined temple of Mithras that lay between the
fort and the Well. It was derelict, but still afforded some shelter. Nicholson
did not like feeling damp, or cold, or uncomfortable. The old temple was a
heathen place, but he could be persuaded to use it. The sooner this trial was
over the better. Meggie was a young, flighty thing. She had shown spirit when
she had confronted that man at the back of the group, but he did not like her.
She knew too much; he could feel it. The sooner she was tried, the better. Yet
he could still be persuaded to change his mind. He liked to see the women beg.
He thought lasciviously of the rumours he had heard about this John Kincaid he
had been charged with bringing back from Scotland.  One woman had been
tried twice; the first time, Lieutenant-Colonel Hobson had decided she was too
pretty to be a witch and asked for a re-trial. The second time Witchfinder
Kincaid had pricked her, the blood had gushed from her thigh and rendered her
innocent. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that this blonde creature
presently tied up behind him would be acquitted in a similar way.

The company of men half-dragged, half-pulled Meggie to the
Mithraic temple. She stumbled several times on the way, her bare feet freezing
as she ploughed through frozen mud and her white shift falling off her thin
shoulders. All the while, she begged and screamed and cried. She prayed to
Coventina, she prayed to Mithras, she begged the water nymphs to take pity on
her and help her. The men barged in through the door; but they did not see the
man in the shadows peel away from the altar and melt into the wall. They were
too intent on demonizing a nineteen year old girl.

‘Bring the accused before me!’ shouted Nicholson. He had
taken up position at the front of the temple, beneath a huge carving of the god
slaying a bull. The temple made him feel uncomfortable, but he was determined
to do this right now. The thought of the three pounds he could potentially earn
drove the uncomfortable feelings out of his mind.

The men who had been dragging Meggie towards the temple threw
her down in front of Nicholson. She lay shivering on the stone floor, curled up
in a foetal position muttering to herself, repeating Coventina’s name and
squeezing her eyes shut.

‘Make her stand!’ growled Nicholson. Two men appeared from
the side and forced her to stand upright. Meggie clasped her fingers together,
crying and begging for someone to listen to her, for someone to hear what she
had to say.

‘Take her clothes off. Strip her to the waist!’ said
Nicholson. The men looked at one another. Who was going to do this?

‘Strip her!’ shouted Nicholson. ‘What keeps you? For God’s
sake, if you won’t do that, then lift her clothing and pull it over her head. I
must have her lower body exposed. That is where the blood will settle if she is
human. I need to prick her to test her. Do you want this witch vanquished? Do
you want her out of your village? Then do it! Strip her! Now!’

John stepped forward. His face was grey and his eyes huge and
terrified.

‘I shall do it, Sir. I feel I owe it to Alice to have her
convicted. She killed my Alice and she must pay.’

John!’ cried Meggie, some of her senses returning to her.
‘Please, no. What would Alice think? How can this help her?’

‘You killed her,’ he spat out. ‘You killed her and you need
to pay.’

With that, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the hem of
Meggie’s shift. He yanked it over her head and tried to ignore the muffled
screams and cries of shame and humiliation. Nicholson’s eyes glinted as he
scanned the girl’s body. It was milk-white and slender, her breasts small and
her stomach flat. Perfect. She was a joy to behold. He would make this last.

‘What is this witch’s name? It is correct practice that
someone confirms the identity of the accused. I shall not be held responsible
for harming an innocent,’ said Nicholson, looking around at the assembled men
in the temple.

‘Meggie. It is definitely Meggie,’ cried John, stepping
forward. There was a stifled cry from the girl who stood half naked in front of
the men she had grown up with.

‘Yes. It is Meggie,’ said Robert. ‘Make the witch suffer.’
There was a rumble of assent from the men and Meggie moaned softly. She was
struggling to breathe, her face trapped inside the material of her shift. She
shook her head to try and slacken it off, but it wrapped itself tighter and she
began to choke and cough. She raised her hands to her face to try and pull the
cloth away, but somebody grabbed her hands and pulled them down. She twisted
her hands, trying to loosen the rope which bound her wrists, but the fibres bit
in even more. She gagged and coughed again. Nicholson wrinkled his nose and
viewed her with contempt.

‘It is the demon inside her trying to escape,’ said
Nicholson. He raised his staff and showed the men the wicked pin on the end of
it. ‘I shall prick the witch with this tool. I shall need to find a witch-mark
first. I shall approach the accused and look at her body.’ Nicholson stepped
towards Meggie and inspected every inch of the flesh that was exposed. He was
so close she could feel his hot breath on her body. His breathing was ragged
and she wanted to pull away from him, but she was held fast by his men. His
voice spoke next to her ear, his face invisible to her. ‘Do not struggle,
Witch. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.’ Meggie could feel the
icy cold seeping through the broken stone slabs on the floor, numbing her feet
and creeping up her legs. She thought she would faint with cold and
humiliation. Then she prayed that she would lose consciousness; it would make
this more bearable if she was oblivious to it.