Witchstruck (7 page)

I let the moment pass and helped the Lady Elizabeth back to her feet. We cleared the circle with the ritual of our hands and voices, calling on the spirits to see us safely home. I said no more about Marcus Dent. There was more here than Aunt Jane was prepared to tell me.

It was the first time I could remember my aunt hiding something from me. I felt worried and uncomfortable as we kissed cheeks and left each other on the dark woodland track.

‘Here,’ she said, beyond the princess’s hearing, swiftly pressing a wrapped bundle into my hand. ‘The white stone is charmed. Keep it under your pillow, and it will help to avert the eyes that watch. There is also a dagger, so you may
cast
a full circle without me. Remember to honour the four points of the compass once the circle is closed.’

I unwrapped the bundle a little, feeling its weight, and gasped when I saw the knife she had given me.

‘Aunt, this is your sacred dagger. Your athame. You cannot give it away. It has been consecrated for you alone.’

But Aunt Jane only shook her head and smiled when I tried to offer the knife back to her.

‘I pass it to you now, Meg. I have no further need of it. It is my gift to you, from one witch to another. We may not be able to meet again this year. Use the athame to strengthen your skill.’

This close, I could feel her sickness, the dry heat of her bird-like wrist and forearm, narrow enough for me to encircle with my hand. I had been right to think her thinner than before. She had the wasting sickness – I could see the signs she had tried to hide from me under her long-sleeved gown and loose neck-cloth.

‘You are not well, Aunt.’

‘It does not matter,’ she said, echoing her own words from earlier, when we had sat in the circle and listened to the birdsong high above in the green branches. ‘Go now, before your absence is noted. And be careful.’

‘Will you . . .’ I hesitated, unable to speak the words. ‘When will I see you again?’

‘If you need help, speak to the spirits through the bones,’ Aunt Jane whispered, close up against my ear, and there was
something
in her voice that sent a shiver down my spine.

Then my aunt kissed me one last time and was gone, scrambling up onto the broad back of the ass and turning its head the way she had come. Without waiting to see her ride away, I slipped back into the dappled shelter of the trees and waited there trembling until I could no longer hear the clop of hooves across stony grass.

My aunt was mortally sick, perhaps not far from death, and according to the bones one of us was under suspicion as a witch and a heretic.

If any who accused us could prove heresy, we would burn at the stake. Witchcraft would see us drowned or hanged.

Either way, one of us was doomed to die an agonizing death.

My immediate instinct was to run away, to leave Woodstock and never go back, hiding myself in some faraway place, perhaps over the sea. I could work as a laundress or a servant in some quiet town where they would not bother to search for me.

But that was cowardice, and nonsense too. If I were to leave Woodstock under suspicion of witchcraft, my aunt would be among those questioned, to see if she knew of my whereabouts, and if her room in my father’s house was searched . . .

No, I must stay at Woodstock for now, and trust to my aunt’s protective charm-stone to ward off discovery.

I shivered, and thought of the sinister ‘eyes that watch’.
If
the bones had spoken truly, we might soon discover by whom we were observed: the witchfinder Marcus Dent, as my aunt suspected, or perhaps the Spanish priests, who already felt like spies in our midst, constantly watching and reporting back to the Queen on her sister’s lack of devotion to Catholicism.

One morning the household was set into uproar by the arrival of a letter from the Queen.

Elizabeth made a hissing noise and strode furiously from the room, knocking her chair to the floor, the letter clutched in her hand. ‘My sister writes to tell me I cannot leave this vile old place, for her counsellors advise against it. Still no proof of my guilt, yet here I must remain, a prisoner of the Queen’s whim!’

Blanche hurried after her, making comforting noises, but for hours we could hear the princess pacing her room and speaking in that harsh, angry voice we all dreaded. ‘If the Privy Council cannot prove me guilty of any crime against the throne, I should be released from this uninhabitable prison. Feel this chill air, look at the smoking chimneys and the damp on the walls! My health suffers daily while my sister keeps me in this cramped Hell-hole on the strength of rumour alone. I am innocent and have proved it again and again. To keep me here under guard is an outrage. This is not English law!’

That evening, she ordered all the windows to be
shuttered
, and took to her bed in ‘great pain’, according to Blanche Parry, who came scurrying back along the corridor, demanding candles, lavender water and warmed cloths dipped in a distillation of wormwood.

Sir Henry Bedingfield had gone hunting that day but was hurriedly summoned back to the lodge. He, in turn, called for a physician to be brought to the princess, only to discover there were none living nearer than Oxford who were learned and respected enough to attend royalty. Sir Henry wrote to several in the university there, but Elizabeth swore she would rather commend her soul to God than entrust her body to a stranger.

She would not even admit the old priest, Father Vasco, though he limped to her door several times a day to offer her the holy sacrament and even banged on the wood with his stick to attempt entry.

For days Elizabeth kept to her bed, just as she had done in June. It was a dreary time. We spoke in whispers, our conversation of little else but the letter from the Queen and Elizabeth’s sickness. I wondered what my brother would think of this latest breach between the Tudor sisters. No doubt it would lend weight to his hatred of the Catholic Queen. Though since I had refused to communicate with him, or my scheming cousin Malcolm – despite their occasional notes that ended up on the fire – he was unlikely to know what was going on at Woodstock Lodge.

Amongst this chaos, I looked for a chance to slip away
and
strengthen my skill as my aunt had suggested, casting a circle with my new dagger. No one would miss me while everyone was so intent on the closed door of Elizabeth’s bedchamber. So long as I was back at the lodge before dusk, there should be no danger.

I decided to return to the ruined palace to work my spells. There would be no guards on the palace entrances after dark, for although Bedingfield had demanded they patrol there at night, the men were lazy and complained there was nothing inside worth stealing. The ornate wood panelling and all the old-fashioned furnishings were riddled with wormholes and little better than tinder. Even those wall tapestries still hanging were tattered and mouldering, beyond repair. Besides, many locals believed the old palace to be haunted and would not venture near it after dark – which made it the perfect place to practise casting the circle.

With my aunt’s dagger strapped to my leg under my gown, which I wore loose over a russet-brown kirtle to conceal the bulge, I slipped out through the busy clatter of the kitchen. The broad-shouldered cook did not seem to have noticed me, and black-haired Joan – who shared my bedchamber – was whistling ‘Robin of the Greenwood’, a popular tune amongst the guards, as she scoured one of the iron pots.

I heard the cook curse the girl for whistling as I pulled the door shut behind me. Joan was simple-minded, and a happy enough soul, but she seemed unable to learn that
whistling
would only get her into trouble in that household, for Sir Henry – and indeed most men – considered it unlucky for a woman to whistle. Certainly, many believed a whistling woman was doomed to remain forever unmarried.

Just as I had hoped, there were no guards in sight as I approached the ancient palace buildings. Nonetheless, I kept to the deep shadows under the walls, schooling myself to be cautious. It was growing cool, the sun having already dipped below the level of the lodge, and there was an eerie silence to the place. It almost made me wish I had chosen to cast my circle in the woods after all.

I found an unlocked door and counted my way swiftly though the downstairs rooms and corridors, remembering the way we had come with Elizabeth. It was very dim inside and surprisingly chilly for a summer’s evening, the air damp and thick with dust.

My thin-soled shoes echoed on the stone flags of the great entrance hall, the rushes that must once have lain there long since rotted away.

I paused at the base of the stone staircase, and gazed up into the shadows on the upstairs landing.

The last thing I wanted to do was go upstairs. The awareness of ghosts here seemed to press in on me, like a sick headache. But it was too dangerous to cast the circle down here, where it was more likely I would be seen or heard from outside. I did not wish to be caught, after all. The prospect of suffering a witch’s death was too horrible
to
contemplate, yet I often dwelt on it when alone in my room. I had heard of witches drowned, hanged or even burned to death for daring to practise the craft. Once my aunt had whispered of a young witch in Scotland, accused of poisoning her neighbours’ goats; she had been found guilty and rolled down a steep hill in a barrel filled with iron spikes. The mere thought of the agonies she must have endured left me shuddering and afraid.

Yet still I could not imagine a life without magick.

At that moment, a young housemartin, roosting somewhere amongst the rafters, burst into flight above me with a clatter of wings.

I was not the only creature on edge in the old palace.

I climbed the stairs, lifting my gown so it wouldn’t brush against the dust and debris. I knew that if I did not hurry, night would fall before I was finished. Then I would have to come down again in complete darkness, and find my way back across the lower rooms without even the dying rays of the sun to guide me.

Even as I considered that possibility, I chided myself as a coward. What witch was afraid of the dark?

The third chamber I peeked into looked perfect. It was small and unswept, but the narrow windows had no glass, which meant there was more light here than elsewhere, and there was nothing on the floor except dust.

Quickly, I drew the dagger out from beneath my skirts, and stood in the centre of the shadowy room. Recalling my
aunt
’s incantation for the casting, I spoke the spell as clearly as I dared in the silence. I lay down an oak twig for an altar, along with a few fragrant leaves and flowers, then stooped to draw a rough circle about myself in the dust. I did not dare burn any herbs this time to clear away evil influences, in case any escaping smoke was seen from outside. But I spoke the words of protection under my breath, hoping they would be enough.

The air stirred darkly at the spell, raising the dust as though a door had been opened somewhere. I listened, but heard nothing. It had probably been a sudden wind from the gardens below. The old palace was so draughty, with most of its bare windows unshuttered beyond the royal apartments.

Seating myself in the middle of my circle, I sat straight-backed and cross-legged, facing my little makeshift altar. I called on the four directions – north, south, east and west – and begged each one to look favourably on the magick I would work there.

The power began to come into me from the shadows, tingling at the tips of my fingers, a rush of blood to my head that left me momentarily dizzy.

I was just groping for the ritual that would open the dark magick of the moon for me, the women’s magick that is best worked at twilight or in the hours of darkness, when a terrible scream shattered the stillness.

‘Witch!’

I scrambled to my feet at that scream and spun in the fading light to face my accuser.

My breath was coming short and fast, and the sacred dagger was still clutched in my hand as though I intended to use it.

To my amazement, it was Joan who had screamed, the simple girl from the kitchen who shared my room and loved to follow me about my duties like a faithful dog. Tonight, she had followed me into the dark silences of the mouldering Palace of Woodstock. I don’t know why. Perhaps she had thought I was playing a game, like hide and seek, and wanted to join in.

But what she’d seen here tonight must have terrified the poor simple girl instead.

Joan’s mouth was agape as she stared at the ceremonial knife with its wicked blade, and the uneven circle drawn in the dust between us. Then her finger pointed at my face in dreadful accusation.

‘Witch!’

FIVE

Witch

I TOOK A
step towards the girl, intending to calm her down, but instead Joan backed away as though I meant to come after her.

Stumbling, she fell backwards through the doorway into the deepening shadows on the landing. Joan yelped with hurt and fear. Then she jumped up and ran back to the staircase as though all the hounds in Hell were after her, still crying, ‘Witch!’

The circle broken, the dagger forgotten in my hand, I stood horrified.

What had I done?

In my stupidity, I had thought it safe to work magick here in the old palace, casting the circle and never believing I might be caught. Now I had likely brought down the wrath of the Inquisition on my head, and led the witch-hunters straight to my family.

For a moment, I considered running away. Then I remembered my gift.

There was still a chance I might influence Joan into believing she had seen nothing but a girl exploring the ruined old palace. But only if I could catch her before she had a chance to tell anyone else. If I ran away, I would soon
be
caught and condemned. Nor would it be long before the witch-hunters wondered who could have taught me the craft, and began to ask questions of my aunt.

I could not have Aunt Jane’s death on my conscience.

Hurriedly, I scuffed out the circle and concealed my aunt’s dagger under a heap of mouldering rushes in one of the downstairs rooms. Then I picked up my skirts and ran back across the dark lawns to the gloomy buildings of the lodge.