Witchfall (9 page)

Elizabeth gasped and missed her footing, stumbling in the dark. As she righted herself, the shadowy room began to break apart in waves, the white-washed plaster disintegrating and flying away. The four walls of her chamber peeled away to reveal a high, desolate place and a storm howling about our ears. A violent wind tore at Elizabeth’s hair as she stood outside the circle, her face hidden from me, her thin body buffeted by forces I could not control.

‘My Lady Elizabeth!’ I cried, the weight on my back immense now, my head bowed almost to the floor by its burden. ‘Hurry, step back inside the circle!’

But my words were whipped away by the wind, nothing but a cry in the darkness. Desperate to save my mistress, I staggered to the edge of the circle and reached out an arm, groping for the hem of her gown in the whirling maelstrom.

‘Come . . . back . . . my lady!’

For a second, my fingers brushed some silken fabric, and I gripped hard, knowing I had her. But before I could drag the princess back inside the safe territory of the circle, the calamity I had dreaded finally happened. The seething darkness above us, the weight I had been carrying on my back ever since we began the ritual, suddenly came crashing down and split the darkness asunder. For a few moments
there was chaos. Light on the one side battled dark on the other, jagged lightning bolts and storm clouds raging above our heads. At last there was a terrifying crack, and the place of desolation juddered beneath our feet, as though the earth itself had broken in two.

Then up out of the centre of the circle, the very spot where I had set the candle and told Elizabeth to call forth the spirit, came a roaring black wind like a tornado. This wind swept up and round with immense power, scattering everything in its path and spinning me backwards like a top. I fell into what remained of the tallow-marked circle, still holding onto the hem of the princess’s gown and dragging her on top of me.

As soon as Elizabeth’s body crashed back into the circle, there was an incoherent cry of rage from the darkness. The black wind funnelled itself into a body and soared upwards – up, up, up, until it was almost out of sight. Then the air steadied and I realized that I was lying on my back on a hard wooden floor, staring up at the hearth in Elizabeth’s bedchamber, where a dark cloud had just vanished up the chimney.

What on earth had just happened?

The silver ghost of Anne Boleyn put her face in her hands and wept, her outline growing thinner and less distinct until she too was gone, her spirit fading into nothingness like the last shreds of a mist.

Elizabeth, kneeling beside me in the darkness, also
wept and called on Anne Boleyn in vain. Nobody answered.

I thought the terrible noise of the summoning must surely bring down the whole palace on our heads in moments. My hands shook as I hunted for the tinderbox, eventually managing to relight the candle. I held up its fragile light to reassure myself that the four walls were still there and the roof intact. The fire, it seemed, had long since gone out.

I knelt by the chimney and held out a hand experimentally to the stones. The hearth was cold as though no fire had been lit there in months, though I plainly remembered the embers glowing red before we began the ritual. The chamber itself was painfully icy; the skin on my arms had come up in goose pimples and I could feel my teeth chattering.

Of the black wind there was no sign.

‘Forgive me, Mother,’ Elizabeth whispered into the shadows, then looked across at me with an expression of complete loathing. ‘Why did you do that, Meg? Why did you pull me back? You’ve ruined everything. I nearly touched my mother’s spirit – and now she’s gone.’

‘She didn’t come alone,’ I muttered, but the princess was not listening. I pulled myself to my feet and cleared away the remnants of the circle, my body aching now the ritual was over. I felt as though I had been kicked all over by a mule.

‘You must get back into bed,’ I told her, fearful that we would be interrupted at any moment. ‘If the priests of the
Inquisition come to the door, you must pretend to have been woken by the noise . . . just like everyone else will have been, I expect.’

Shivering, I threw back the covers on the princess’s bed and helped her slip miserably between the sheets, her face ravaged with tears. I stood a moment by the hearth, listening to the stones. What we had done here tonight had been more powerful than any magick I had ever performed before. Yet whatever that black wind had signified, the room was silent now and it seemed to have gone.

‘Send Alice to me,’ Elizabeth said coldly when I bent to tuck her into bed. ‘I do not wish you to attend me.’

I made my way outside to find Alice waiting by the door, her face drawn with weariness but her eyes alight with curiosity and fixed on my face.

‘Her ladyship is asking for you and she’s not in the best of moods,’ I managed, adding drily, ‘You were right not to stay.’

‘Wait,’ Alice insisted as I stumbled past her, almost too exhausted now to stand. ‘You can’t leave it like that. What was the spell you cast? Did it work? What happened?’

I stopped and turned, staring at her. ‘You didn’t hear?’

‘I heard nothing, except the mice scratching in the walls. The night has been still and silent since I left you.’

There was nothing but confusion and innocence in her face. I could scarcely believe it. Alice had been only a heartbeat away from the chamber door throughout the
ritual, yet she had apparently heard none of it. Not the noise of our cries, nor the roar of the black tempest whirling about our heads. What had happened in that room had stayed in that room, as even the most violent and terrifying dream stays locked within a sleeper’s head. No wonder the guards had not come running when the storm was at its most furious and vindictive. It had been a magickal storm, a tempest of the mind, confined only to that room and its occupants.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Goodnight, Alice. You’d better hurry. She’s waiting.’

It was just after dawn when the priests of the Inquisition returned, this time with a tearful Blanche Parry in tow. For the second time they entered the princess’s apartments without knocking, and demanded that I should rouse the Lady Elizabeth at once. Not bothering to argue, I sent a sleepy Alice in to wake the princess and see to her needs. Elizabeth had said she did not wish me to attend her again, and I suspected that one night’s sleep would have done nothing to change her mind.

I turned and looked at Blanche Parry.

Blanche did not meet my gaze, but stood shivering behind the men in their long, black robes, her cap askew, a nasty bruise on her cheek and her skirts soiled with filth along the hem.

‘Mistress Parry,’ I murmured, indicating the settle, ‘will you not sit down? You look unwell.’

Saying nothing for once, Blanche sat down and began to weep, hiding her face in her hands. A coldness pierced my heart as I regarded her bent head, then looked at Señor de Pero, noting the smugness of his expression. What had Blanche told them under torture? I did not believe they would have racked her or inflicted any other kind of outrage on her body, despite the bruise on her cheek. But there were certain kinds of torture that did not need to be physically inflicted, tortures of the mind and soul, and I guessed that Blanche might have been unable to stay silent in the face of a priest’s cunning words, whispered in her ear.

I could hardly blame her, even if she
had
betrayed us. The Inquisition were experienced in making people talk, and Blanche was not used to holding her tongue.

‘The Lady Elizabeth is not well,’ I explained to the priests. ‘She may not feel able to rise and speak with you.’

Señor Miguel de Pero gave me a sneering smile, just as he had done on his previous visit. But there was something in his face this time that made me feel deeply uncomfortable. What did he know?

‘Nonetheless,’ de Pero said smoothly, ‘she will speak with us, either here or in her chamber if she is too sick to leave her bed. Her lady-in-waiting has been most helpful, and now we must discuss our findings with the Lady Elizabeth. I am sure your mistress will be anxious to know without delay what we have discovered, don’t you agree?’

I did not reply, but saw with some relief that Alejandro
was standing silently behind them in the doorway. So I was not to be entirely alone in this trial.

But then, as Alejandro stepped clear of the shadows, I saw his face and was suddenly more frightened than I had been even when Marcus Dent took me prisoner and tried to drown me as a witch. For there was no hope in Alejandro’s face, only a cold fear that told me we were in danger of losing our lives. But for what reason? What had Blanche told these men to make Alejandro look like that?

The bedchamber door opened and Elizabeth stood there, hands clasped loosely before her, regal even in her simple white gown and wrap. She came forward with Alice behind her, the girl holding up her train as though Elizabeth was already Queen in her sister’s stead. Her cheeks were still flushed – with fever or anger, I wondered? – but otherwise she looked calm and collected, not like a girl who had spent half the night trying to summon the spirit of her dead mother.

‘Sir,’ she said coldly, inclining her head to Señor de Pero. ‘It is very early for you and your men to be calling on me. What is so important that I must be roused from my sickbed to speak with you?’

‘You must forgive our intrusion, my lady, but there are several matters we would discuss with you immediately.’ He paused, looking at her closely. ‘I regret that you have not been well, but it seems you are not in danger. Perhaps if you were to sit for my questions?’

‘Thank you, I shall stand.’ Elizabeth glanced across at Blanche, still sobbing into her hands, then returned her gaze to the Spaniard. ‘Ask your questions without delay, sir, so that I may return to my bed before my sickness grows.’

‘Very well.’ Señor de Pero’s voice became as cold as hers, no doubt sensing that no amount of politeness on his part could thaw this princess. ‘You have denied knowing the astrologer Dee. But from what your lady-in-waiting has told us, it seems you have no need of such men about you. For Mistress Parry tells us that one of your own servants is skilled in the dark arts. Indeed, that her aunt was so well-known as a witch, she was burnt in the marketplace for her sins.’

My throat constricted, and I could hardly breathe. Standing numb with fear, my palms clammy, I felt my heartbeat grow sickeningly fast. It was over. We were betrayed. There could be no escape from this revelation. Only death and disgrace could follow: death for me – and for the princess, disgrace, yes, but if I were to deny that I had ever worked magick in her service, she might yet survive this blow.

If they were to search under my floorboards . . .

I stared painfully at Señor de Pero, the two men in black robes who had accompanied him, the guards standing curiously at the door, and wondered how it would be possible to subdue them all to my will, and whoever else might be privy to this secret knowledge.

But no spell came to my mind. I stood helpless as a
rabbit in a trap, waiting for the blow that would kill it. I did not even have my white stone about my throat, the stone my aunt had charmed to protect me in moments such as these, for it was under my floorboards with my secret books.

Then Elizabeth spoke, her voice cool, musing. ‘I know nothing of this aunt, but it is true one of my young maids was once accused of some dark knowledge. It was investigated, and found to be false. The girl who had accused her was simple-minded and envied Meg’s position as my maid, wanting it for herself.’

Miguel de Pero’s eyes narrowed and he turned to look at me. ‘Nonetheless, we will need to question your servant for ourselves.’

‘She was very thoroughly questioned at the time, as I recall, by the local witchfinder. No proof was ever found.’

The Spaniard’s eyes flickered back to Elizabeth. ‘Yes, Mistress Parry let slip that she was examined by one Marcus Dent.’

Alejandro made some involuntary movement towards his sword hilt as though he would draw steel and strike the man down. His jaw was clenched, his eyes smouldering with anger.

I glanced at him swiftly, for no more than a second, begging him, warning him with my eyes to be calm and do nothing.

Calm!

I could hardly be calm myself, with my heart pounding,
and my cheeks so icy with fear it felt as though all the blood had drained from my face. But we had to keep our heads. Or Elizabeth might lose hers.

‘Was that the man’s name? I can hardly recall, he was there less than an hour. But if Blanche is sure . . .’ My admiration for the princess grew as I saw how steadily and with what resolve she met his killing thrusts and sent them straight back again. ‘I was sick in bed at the time, and Blanche always oversaw the other servants at Woodstock, so she would know what happened that day better than I.’

Blanche gave another great sob at this and cried, ‘Forgive me, my lady. I could not help it. They hurt me and twisted my words so.’

Señor de Pero ignored her tearful outburst, still watching Elizabeth as though hoping she would suddenly crumble and admit to some terrible guilt. ‘And this aunt of hers, this proven witch—’

Elizabeth dismissed his words with a gesture. ‘I have no idea who this woman could be and have never heard of her before this day. I am not privy to the lives of my servants and their families. Are you, sir?’

He conceded that point with a dry shake of his head.

Glancing at Alice, still standing wide-eyed at her back, Elizabeth nodded towards the sobbing Blanche.

‘Alice, take Mistress Parry into my chamber and see if you can calm her nerves with a cup of stout wine. I shall call for you when I am ready to retire myself.’ She looked at
Miguel de Pero with glacial dislike while Alice supported the shuffling Blanche into the bedchamber and quietly closed the door behind her. ‘You have hurt and frightened my old servant, sir. I trust you had good reason.’

‘You may dislike our methods, my lady, but they work. Mistress Parry proved stubborn and loyal to her mistress. She would never have spoken so freely without a little push towards honesty.’