Darkwitch Rising (15 page)

I
t was Midsummer Day, the nativity of St John the Baptist, and England and western Europe sweltered under a hot sun and the shared headache of a splendidly celebrated Midsummer Eve the previous night. In the afternoon of the day just gone, men and women had danced into the forests and taken branches which they hauled back to their dwellings to plant over their front doors. To any priest who asked, this ritual was to honour the nativity of St John the Baptist, but in hearts and memories, this ritual recalled a time long past when there was something more to be celebrated in the forests at the solstice than the nativity of Christian martyrs.

Dead wood was collected for the night, and piled into great bonfires, recalling the ancient bone fires designed to frighten away witches. Then, as twilight set in, all across Europe men set these massive bonfires alight. When the fires were burning well, and the men and women present fuelled with alcohol, the dances began. People grasped hands and formed concentric rings about the fires, moving first this way and then that, with the occasional foolhardy youth breaking free of the ring to leap through the flames.

Most of the dancers didn’t even pretend to associate these fire dances with the Baptist. Instead, they remembered the circling dance as Ringwalker’s Dance and, if asked what that meant, the only reply to be received was a sly look and a cunning smile.

Londoners, dancing about fires in both east and west Smithfield, called their dances the Troy Game, although one or two were heard to refer to it as Ringwalker’s Troy.

Lady Anne and Noah occupied a townhouse in Highgate village, some four miles to the north-west of London and just on the edge of Hampstead Heath. They had been at Highgate some two weeks now, and Lady Anne was pleased to see that Noah’s initial nervousness at being so close to London had abated so that she now appeared as relaxed as Lady Anne was herself.

Every day they rode in a trap pulled by a small pony from their rented townhouse to the spring-fed ponds on the eastern reaches of the Heath, and there Lady Anne took of the waters, either orally or, when she dared and when she felt it seemly, by clothing herself in a voluminous linen garment and immersing herself in one of the ponds. Noah would usually sit with her, or assist in whatever way she could, but this Midsummer’s Day the lady settled into a chair by the side of one of the ponds under the shade of a spreading oak tree and told Noah that she might amuse herself as she pleased, for she, Lady Anne, felt so lethargic she wanted only to doze away the day.

Noah smiled, ensured Lady Anne was comfortable and wanted for nothing, then wandered off towards Parliament Hill which rose in the western near distance.

In Antwerp, Charles convened the Circle in his bedchamber at one hour past midday. Normally it would have been difficult for him to have acquired several hours free during the day, but such had been the celebrations of Midsummer’s Eve few people begrudged the king a few hours rest within his chamber.

They sat on his bed, five of them, for Long Tom had materialised—using his own power this time—just as they were forming the Circle and was wordlessly accepted. Charles sat in the centre at the head of the bed, Marguerite to his right, Kate to his left, then Louis to Marguerite’s right, then Long Tom between Louis and Kate. All were naked, save for Long Tom who, apparently, was incapable of shedding his clothes.

They were quiet and introspective.

“Much depends on our strength today,” Charles said eventually, looking at each in turn, his eyes resting fractionally longer on Louis than on any of the others.

There was silent acceptance for a reply. They all knew it.

“Asterion will feel something, and wonder,” Charles continued. He lifted his hands and touched his biceps briefly, as if feeling there the golden bands of Troy. “I will be here for him, to ease his worry.”

“It is not Asterion I worry so much about,” said Louis, “but Noah’s imp. Are you sure—”

“It will sleep, along with Noah,” said Long Tom. “I am sure of it.”

“’Sure’ is not quite the extent of reassurance I was seeking,” Louis muttered. He was tense, and very nervous, and Long Tom smiled at him and reached out a hand, resting it momentarily on his shoulder.

“We will do all we can,” he said. “There is risk, yes, but once what is done is done, then the imp will…” his voice trailed off.

The imp will be deceived
, everyone finished in their own minds, and prayed that it might be so.

“It is time,” said Charles, and Marguerite reached for the box and the small piece of browned turf it contained.

Noah wandered to the lower reaches of Parliament Hill. She did not want to climb to its peak, mainly because she had a fear of standing there outlined against the clear blue sky for any who cared to lift their eyes and see, so she walked slowly about the base of the hill to a gigantic elm tree that someone in the village had mentioned to her.

It was almost thirty feet in girth, and was so old that its centre was quite hollowed out with age. Almost forty years earlier some enterprising local villager had built a circular wooden staircase within, comprising forty-two steps, leading to a platform built among the branches of the tree.

Noah stood at the base of the tree, considered, then entered. The platform was shrouded in leaves, affording her some concealment, and she could hear no voices or laughter, so she knew she would be alone.

She climbed.

In London, in the kitchen of the house in Idol Lane, Jane reached for a basket and looked to where Weyland sat at the table, counting his hoard of gold and silver.

“I am going to fetch some fish,” she said, and Weyland grunted.

“Don’t be too long,” he said, then went back to his pile of coin.

Jane stared at him a moment, then turned and left the house, closing the door quietly behind her.
Jane had only been allowed to leave the house in the past three or four years. Before then she’d been Weyland’s prisoner, hardly able to even see the light without his constant presence. Now Jane’s pox had progressed to the point where no one would listen to what she had to say. She was so greatly the outcast—hated by the men who had used her and hated by those men’s wives and daughters—that Weyland felt comfortable in allowing her to leave the house. There was no one within London who would lift a finger to aid her or offer her sanctuary. Jane had two choices: Weyland’s comfortable house, or to live as a beggar beyond the walls of London.

Jane hated it,
hated herself
, that Weyland knew she would always come home. There was nowhere else for her to go.

Besides, it was hardly as if Jane walked the streets
quite
unescorted. There was always Weyland’s imp deep within her, ready to bite and gnaw and chew and create such agony it would drive Jane to her knees in despair the instant it felt that she had overstepped her boundaries in some manner.

Jane would be a good girl in her brief time away from Weyland, and well Weyland knew it.

Marguerite threw the turf towards the ceiling, rejoining her hands into the Circle as she did so; then all five watched as the turf fell and metamorphosed into the circle of emerald silk.

“Noah,” Charles said in a tight, hungry voice as the silk settled to the bed. “
Noah!
”

She stood atop the platform in the elm, feeling completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. The sun’s rays were hot, but here the branches of the elm created a lovely dappled shade around her, and a gentle
wind stirred through the tree and eased away some of the heat.

She yawned, and thought that perhaps she would sit for a few minutes before she climbed down and started back to Lady Anne.

As she sat down, and her head started to nod sleepily, Noah realised that she was very close to the ancient Mag’s Pond where, as foolish Cornelia, she had gone to beg Mag to give her a daughter so she would bind Brutus to her through a child.

Brutus
, she thought, and slipped into unconsciousness.

Jane reached Billingsgate fish market before she realised that something strange was happening. The market was almost empty—this was a holiday, and there were only a few stalls open for those needing to purchase fresh food—but Jane had a sudden sense of something
impending
. Something that made no sense in the sleepy quiet of the market.

“Brutus?” she whispered, and then almost immediately fought away the thought, and kept her mind blank.

But still Jane’s face turned north, and still her lips formed a single word.
Brutus!

At the kitchen table, Weyland raised his head, and frowned.

High within her elm, Noah slipped very deep into an enchanted sleep. But even so, she remained aware.

She found herself standing at the edge of Mag’s Pond, with her glossy hair falling unbound down her back and dressed in nothing save a long, simple white linen wrap draped about her hips.

“Brutus!” she said, and stepped into the pond.

I
was shaking with nervousness. I knew what had happened—my friends had formed the Circle, almost certainly with the aid of Long Tom, for I could feel Sidlesaghe power in this—and had “arranged” for me to meet with Brutus here, in the magical waters of Mag’s Pond. I was both exhilarated and horribly nervous all in the same moment. Would he speak loving words to me?

Or would he condemn me?

We’d always parted in life with such bitterness. In our first lives he’d hated me so deeply he had refused to speak to me for almost twenty years. In our second lives he had finally kissed me, but then spat at me, and said I tasted corrupt, and that I had allowed myself to become Asterion’s whore.

Now here we were to meet again, through the magic of the Circle and of Mag’s Pond.

I was terrified, more of my own appalling hope than of what he might do or say. I cared not about healing old wounds or bridging ancient rifts. All I wanted was for Brutus to love me, and I was almost panicked that this could never be.

The water was cool as I stepped into it, its wetness tugging at the hem of my linen skirt, but as I stepped further into its depths that water took on a faint sheen, and became as if dry, and the linen of my skirt wrapped about my legs as if driven by a breeze rather than by the weight of water.

I walked through the water, and I stepped into…I stepped into…

Oh gods, I stepped into the chamber that had been mine in Mesopotama when I had been the spoiled princess Cornelia, and Brutus…well, when Brutus had been Brutus.

It was fitting, somehow, that we try to heal this wound in the place where it had first opened
.

The chairs where Brutus and I had sat to sup of our first meal together were there, the food still spread upon the table between them. The bath that Brutus had caused the servants to pour was there, steaming gently. The bed where Brutus had raped me was there, its covers smooth and pristine, as if once again they awaited the press of our struggling bodies.

My throat felt dry, my heart was pounding so fast I thought my entire chest must be shaking with its efforts.

“Noah,” said a voice, and I started.

The voice had come from the windows, and I turned to look.

He was there, and had been for some time, I think. He must have observed me arrive through whatever magic portal had carried me here.

“Noah,” he said again, and I thought I heard a catch in his voice. Nervousness, almost, if I could believe that of him. I tried to arrange my face into a smile, but I was too anxious to make any great success of it. I must have looked pale and
apprehensive and likely to run at any moment, and I thought this was not a good start.

He moved, and I tried to focus more clearly on him.

This was difficult, for the light was behind him, and I could not immediately discern his features. I could, however, see that he was dressed as I had originally known him to be, in a white hip wrap and with sandals upon his feet.

His limbs were bare of their kingship bands, but I could just make out the paler flesh where once they had been.

“You
are
Brutus?” I said, calling him for some reason by his original name and not the one he bore now (it seemed fitting, somehow). My voice struggled as much as had his, and I had to gather my strength in order to continue. “You are not some terrible glamour come to trap me?”

Gods, I couldn’t believe I had said that. I sounded accusatory where I
think
I had meant to sound humorous. What a fool I was to try and jest at this moment
.

He made a soft sound (of exasperation?).

“I am truly Brutus,” he said. Then, “Is there someone else you’d prefer to be here?”

Oh, this
was
Brutus well enough. Here we were, making the same mistakes all over again, letting our mouths say words our hearts denied.

“There is no one I would prefer to be here more than you,” I said, and I was relieved to hear that this time my voice had a level of sincerity and emotion underscoring it.

He smiled—at least I saw the flash of white teeth as he walked a little closer to me. Finally, I could more clearly see his features. His hair was as black as ever, falling over his shoulders and partway down his back. His eyes were very dark,
black mysteries, as they always had been. But there were differences. In this rebirth his build was finer, not so muscular as he had been in his two previous lives, but he was just as tall and just as beautiful to me.

“You grow more lovely with each life,” he said, and he smiled again. Now I could see that it
was
a smile. “Noah…”

Terrified of what he
might
say, I rushed in. “Long Tom said we must heal the wounds between us. Brutus, I am so sorry that I ever denied you the right to kiss me, or that I said to you such foul words about Melanthus, or that—”

“Noah, do you loathe me?” He seemed to have disregarded every word I’d said, which made me cross, because it had taken all my effort to force them out. Gods, they’d been sitting unsaid in my mouth for two and a half thousand years and they had not easily leapt forth into voice.