Witchstruck (10 page)

‘Marcus, I swear that I am innocent.’

This time my voice had no effect; he was ready for
it
and merely shook his head, dismissing my words.

‘Witches always swear that they are innocent.’

‘I am not a witch.’

Marcus came towards me and I shrank away at last, guessing instinctively that he meant to touch me. He halted a few feet away, and I could see that my reaction had angered him.

‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps you are not a witch. Not yet. But perhaps you are apprenticed to one.’

My heart almost stopped.

‘Who . . . what do you mean?’

‘Come, Meg, the time for such pretence is long past. Your aunt never married, did she? I have met many such lone women in my time, growing old without a man to keep them on the straight and narrow path to salvation. Perhaps she practises the dark arts behind your father’s back.’ His smile was cold. ‘Or perhaps he knows, and allows it out of fear.’

I stared at him, an icy terror gripping me. If they were to search my aunt’s bedchamber at Lytton Park, what would they find? Magickal instruments enough to hang us both thrice over, and books that no respectable woman should possess.

In desperation, I strengthened my voice. ‘My aunt is not a witch either. I thought you were a learned man, but you must know this is mere superstition. Every unmarried woman past twenty years of age must be a witch these days, it seems.’

My gaze fixed on his blue eyes, I let the silence between us grow long and heavy, the room suddenly clammy with it, like a mist thickening into fog.

I imagined Marcus Dent becoming confused in that oppressive silence and forgetting what he had come here to do. In my mind’s eye, I heard the witchfinder declare me innocent. He would leave Woodstock and never come back. He would forget the accusations against my aunt. He would . . .

‘Do not waste my time with these childish tricks.’ Marcus clapped his hands, and the dark, clammy atmosphere I had conjured was gone from the room. So was the feeling of confusion. Only Marcus Dent remained. He stood in front of me, his gaze assessing. ‘Truly, is that the life you wish for yourself, Meg? To become an old maid like your aunt, accused by your neighbours of worshipping the Devil and turning milk sour wherever your feet pass?’

He was only a man, so he could not understand. A woman did not choose the gift. The gift chose her, and even if she averted her face for years, there could be no ignoring the small, insistent voice in the dark watches of the night that told how she spent her power on sweepings and cradlings and nothings, how she poured the gift away in dirty water every day, while her true self lay hidden and unused, like gold at the back of a drawer.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he said more huskily, and raised a hand to trace a line down my cheekbone. ‘Come to me. Let me protect you.’

‘Come to you? In what way?’

He hesitated, then allowed himself to meet my gaze. There was a strange burning hunger in his blue eyes, and an uncertainty too.

Was Marcus Dent in love with me?

I had thought him merely in lust before, and desperate to make an heir for his estate. But if he was in love with me, that made him vulnerable to my power, whatever he might claim. Perhaps it was not beyond my skill, after all, to turn this man to my will.

I felt sick to think of lowering myself to such a thing. To encourage his love, and then escape him once I had the chance. Yet what choice did I have? This was not just my own neck I would be saving from the noose, I reminded myself, but my aunt’s too.

‘So?’ I prompted him.

He came closer, and I felt the warmth of his breath. ‘Accept my protection, and you will find out.’

I shivered and closed my eyes. His hand cupped my cheek. Suddenly, I was unsure that I could go through with this, even to save my life. The man was sadistic and cruel – how could I take him as my husband?

‘Whatever you may think,’ he continued, ‘I am not a heartless man. I have watched you grow from a child into a beautiful creature, soft-skinned and alive. I don’t wish to see you dangle at the rope’s length, Meg, and watch your light put out so cruelly. But if you won’t give me a good
reason
to discredit the kitchen maid’s testimony, I must do my duty and send you to trial as a witch. And then you
will
hang.’ Slowly, he leaned forward and touched his lips to mine. Even that brief contact seemed to burn my skin. It was all I could do not to push him away. ‘Do we understand each other?’

I opened my eyes, staring at Marcus, and knew I had no chance against him physically. But I still had my skill as a witch. My hands bunched into fists at my side. Reaching out with my thoughts, I tried to repel him with the power of my mind alone.

Marcus Dent stood like a rock, his breath warm on my face, seemingly untouched by my magick.

My lips curled into a grimace and my eyes narrowed to slits as I redoubled my efforts. Still nothing. My belly hurt and sweat collected on my forehead. I pushed so hard against him with my mind that in the far corner of the room an elegant blue glass flagon teetered on the edge of a table and fell, shattering on the floor.

Marcus Dent merely laughed. He withdrew a small white stone from the pouch at his belt and held it up to my face. ‘To ward off a witch’s power, use her own instruments against her,’ he quoted softly. ‘This is your charm-stone, isn’t it?’

Fury and helplessness snarled inside me. Marcus Dent seemed to have an answer for every trick I knew. How could I ever hope to win against such a man?

‘Isn’t it?’ he repeated, waiting for my answer.

Before I could tell him to go to Hell, the door was flung open, and we both turned.

Startled, I stared at the Lady Elizabeth, who stood in the doorway with her guards behind her, wrapped in a rich red mantle that covered her right up to the neck, her face stern and more regal than I had ever seen it.

Marcus Dent appeared astonished by this unexpected interruption, and perhaps even a little fearful. He took a few steps back from me, no doubt realizing how intimate our closeness must seem, and thrust the white charm-stone back into his pouch. He remained defiant though, sure of his ground here. He was the witchfinder, after all, and not without power of his own.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he bowed with rather less respect than he ought to have shown the heir presumptive to the throne.

‘My Lady Elizabeth,’ he murmured, raising his head to meet her accusing gaze. His colour was heightened, his breathing a little fast, but he was back in control. ‘I must apologize for my presence here. You were unwell, so I was called in to question your servant—’

‘I have heard the servant girl’s story, and it is clearly nonsense.’ Elizabeth’s tone was icy, though her eyes flashed across the room at me as though promising dire consequences later. ‘I thank you for your diligence in this matter, Master Dent, but your presence is no longer required. Please leave us.’

He persisted. ‘Madam, an accusation of witchcraft has been made—’

‘There are no witches here, sir. Only two very foolish girls. I may be a prisoner of my sister the Queen’s Grace, but I am still mistress of my own household here at Woodstock and shall punish my own servants as I see fit. Nor are your skills as a witchfinder needed. It was not witchcraft, as you will hear, but a jest gone wrong.’

She turned her head and spoke a command softly to Blanche Parry, who had stood silent and watchful at her shoulder the whole time.

Joan was produced, cringing and rubbing her eyes, from behind Blanche’s voluminous skirts and pushed forward into the centre of the room. There she gave a shivering, tear-stained denial of her original tale and agreed with the Lady Elizabeth, after being prompted, that it had been ‘nothing but a poor jest’ and ‘all made up’.

‘A poor jest, indeed,’ Marcus said tightly, but I could see that he knew he had lost.

Sir Henry Bedingfield came through the door, his florid face redder than ever, demanding to know what on earth had been going on while he was out with the guards in the old palace, searching for suspicious items that might have been left there. He had heard shouts of fire from the lodge, which had turned out to be false, and now the Lady Elizabeth was out of her sickbed and speaking without permission to the local witchfinder.

Elizabeth fixed her gaoler with a stern eye. ‘Sir,’ she said simply, ‘your efforts here have made a mountain out of a molehill. Two silly girls played a game that went awry, and that is all there is to be said about it. Regardless of the country of my sister’s prospective bridegroom, this is still England and we are not yet obliged to accept the Inquisition into our houses.’

Marcus Dent bowed, and reached for his cap and cloak. I could guess what he was thinking. To press his moral duty to examine me as a witch would have been to invite possible disaster in the future. If Queen Mary died without an heir – though that was in serious doubt, with her wedding to Philip of Spain about to take place – Elizabeth would be within her rights to claim the throne. And any fool knew that those who scorned the Lady Elizabeth during her exile from court would be repaid with equal scorn if she were to become Queen herself.

Once Marcus Dent had safely gone, accompanied by a tight-lipped Sir Henry Bedingfield, I waited in silence, with downcast eyes, for the Lady Elizabeth to chastise me.

In the tense silence that followed, I glanced discreetly at the princess and noticed for the first time how unwell she appeared. Her face was lily-white, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed, and she had seated herself in the same chair by the window that Dent had only recently occupied. For her to sit in company was rare, for Elizabeth was a restless person and preferred to stand or walk about whenever possible. I
had
not seen her so affected since her mysterious illness in June, from which she had taken so many weeks to recover.

‘Now, Meg Lytton, I intend to discover the truth of this botched affair that forced me to rise from my sickbed and have Joan lie to that gentleman on your behalf,’ Elizabeth told me, her white hands tightening on the arms of her chair.

Her shrewd gaze was hard to meet. ‘What
precisely
were you doing in the old palace last night?’

SEVEN

Immortal Soul

WE WERE ALONE
together, the door was closed for once, and there was no one to hear us.

‘Speak,’ Elizabeth commanded me impatiently.

‘I was casting a circle,’ I admitted flatly, and saw her face tighten. ‘I didn’t know Joan had followed me out there. I’m sorry. It was careless of me.’

‘I thought we had agreed it was no longer safe to work magick in the old palace. Besides, to go out there alone at dusk was madness. Simply being caught out at such an hour without good reason would be enough to draw suspicion on yourself.’ She looked at me in silence for a moment. ‘You could have been hanged for this, you understand that?’

I blenched and whispered, ‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Why in God’s name do it, then?’

‘I wanted to strengthen my skill. To see if I could work magick on my own, without my aunt to help me.’

‘You were a fool to do so.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Did you never consider the danger you were putting me in? If the Queen heard that a member of my own household had been taken as a witch, do you think she would rest until I too had been summoned back to the Tower and questioned on the same charge?’

I was ashamed, realizing too late that she was right. ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’

She must have read the contrition in my face. ‘Well, if you are resolved never to be such a fool again, and to celebrate Mass with me every morning and evening for the next month like a good Catholic, then we may yet save you from the rope.’

‘I am, my lady. Quite resolved.’

‘Then we shall say nothing more about it.’

I curtseyed. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Not that you must abandon your powers altogether, of course, for I may yet have need of them. But you must be more discreet from now on. I will not be able to lie for you a second time, not without drawing too much attention to myself.’ Elizabeth thought for a moment, staring down at the fine red threads of her mantle. ‘Do you know how to work astrology, Meg? To divine the future from the movements of the stars?’

‘A little,’ I agreed. ‘And to tell the future from the bones, or the entrails of a dead animal, or even the patterns in a bird’s flight.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘For I would have you teach me some of these skills. But not until we can be sure we are not overheard.’

We had been speaking in whispers, our voices so low that no one listening outside could have heard a word. But now Elizabeth straightened, raising her voice for the benefit of anyone with their ear to the door.

‘I have accepted your innocence this time, but there must be no more doubt about your character. Nor will you disgrace my household again, is that clear? If you are so much as suspected of casting a tinker’s spell or making up a love potion, I shall put you back in the hands of that despicable witchfinder myself. Yes, and come to see you hang, if you are found guilty.’

It was all pretence, yet still I shivered, not entirely sure that Elizabeth did not mean that threat.

‘Let this be a lesson to you, girl,’ she continued harshly, ‘to keep to your daily work and your prayers, and not stray too far from the confines of the lodge.’

Elizabeth rose and looked out of the windows, as Marcus had done, across the sunlit lawns down to the river. Her long-fingered hands trembled on the windowsill. Elizabeth seemed very young suddenly. Yet she had already suffered so much in her short and troubled life. I wondered if she was thinking of her mother, the beautiful Queen Anne, executed as a witch and a heretic as well as an adulteress.

But she went on after a moment, in a lighter tone, ‘You have that young Spaniard to thank for your life, by the way. He came to see me this morning. Had the impudence to break into my bedchamber unannounced and beg me to help you.’

I said nothing, but felt heat flood my cheeks.

‘What is he to you?’ she asked idly.

‘Nothing, my lady.’