The Return of the Witch (16 page)

For a while, after I had finished my story, William sat silent. The day was drawing on, the sun dropping in the sky, and the light in the room softened. He had his back to the tall windows, so that it was hard for me to see his expression clearly now. I could only guess at how he was struggling to make sense of what I had told him. I knew he would want to. I knew also that it would frighten him to believe I truly was a witch. To face that fact head-on. To acknowledge the most feared thing, and accept the truth of it when all he knew of witchery was that it was evil and ungodly and dangerous. What did that make the friend that sat before him? What did that make him if he helped me? He held his hands in this lap, fingers interlocking, but still, I noticed, they trembled. He stared at them as he spoke, as if unwilling to meet my eye.

“When you came to me for help, Bess … when you asked me to do something to free your mother, I could not, no … I
did
not act. I said then that there was nothing I was able to bring about that would make any difference to the outcome. I recall saying there was no help I could give. I've thought about that a great deal over the years, for I believe if I
had
helped you … if I had somehow effected your mother's release, well, you both might have been saved. The truth is, Bess, I was full of fear. I feared that if I were seen to be supporting your mother's cause, speaking up for a convicted witch … that I would be colored in that same light. I was afraid for my family, for my new fiancée, for myself.” He raised his gaze then, looking at me directly, and I saw that there were tears in his eyes. “I confess I do not know which thing has tormented me more over the years; my own cowardice, or the fact that through it I lost you.”

“William, do not berate yourself so. You were right; there was nothing you could have done to save my mother.”

“I could have tried! I could have done more than pass the responsibility, the blame, to my father. I could have stood up to the injustice of hanging a good woman, a loving mother, a caring healer who had helped so many people … but I did not, and I will regret it until I draw my last breath.”

“But you do realize, don't you, that she was not wrongly accused? She was a witch, William. Just as I am.”

“Then if what a witch is sits before me, a woman I have loved all my life, I see no evil, no harm, no wickedness.” He drew a deep breath and straightened up. “You have my loyalty and my support, Bess. What is it you would have me do?”

I quickly outlined the plan Erasmus and I had made. I would send a note to Gideon arranging to meet him at Batchcombe Point at sunset. I would write that I wanted to hear to what terms he would agree for Tegan's freedom. While she kept him away from the house, William and Erasmus would go to Batchcombe and get Tegan and bring her to the Hall for safekeeping.

“She will not come willingly,” Elizabeth warned him. “And there are two young women watching over her. They will not easily give her up.”

“We will have Keanes with us. And Richard. I believe four men can overpower two women if needs be.”

“I cannot bear to think of Tegan's distress at being forced. She will not understand it is for her own good. I will concoct a potion for you to give her. Something calming that will make it easier for everyone.” I got up from my chair. “I must write the letter first.”

“I will have Richard ride to town with it.”

“Please send Cook into the garden for lavender and chamomile. I will need to disturb her kitchen for a while.”

William took me to a writing table and gave me quill, ink, and paper.

“I shall go and instruct Keanes to bring round the covered carriage at seven o'clock. We can collect Erasmus on our way to town.” He hesitated and then said, “I know he is not your brother, Bess. It is not my business, of course, but is he…?”

“No. He is a friend, that is all. He is another who has agreed to help me.”

William nodded, satisfied with my answer. I was relieved he did not press me on the subject further. As he made for the door I called after him.

“I cannot come with you, William. I will have to keep my rendezvous with Gideon.”

He looked shocked. “But, there is no need, surely! By the time he realizes you are not coming we will have rescued the girl…”

“You underestimate our enemy. He has magic at his fingertips that you could not imagine. He will sense my presence. He will likely sense there is some sort of trap or trick being played. I cannot risk him deciding against going to the meeting point.”

“If he suspects treachery, why would he go at all?”

“His weakness is his arrogance. He will wish to play the game, certain he cannot lose.”

“It will be dangerous for you, Bess. Why choose such a lonely place, so far from help?”

“He must be well away from the house and the route back here. Don't worry, William. I know the shoreline and the cliff tops near my old home better than anyone. I will be able to leave when I want to.” I did not add that there was one talent I possessed that Gideon did not, for it might have been too much for William to comprehend, to imagine his childhood sweetheart stepping off the cliff top and taking flight.

*   *   *

The letter written and dispatched, I hurried to the kitchen. The housekeeper, Mary-Anne was stick thin and with a pinched face, and was another servant who had been with the family all her working life. She viewed the kitchen as her domain, and I had no wish to incur her displeasure. She greeted me as cordially as she must, given her master bade her grant me any assistance I wished, but it was an uneasy cooperation. Like Keanes, it was more than likely that she would recognize me. Unlike Keanes, in her I detected no sympathy for the magical. Indeed, if she suspected what I was making was anything more than a calming infusion she would, in all probability, lose the restraint her loyalty to William demanded and start screaming “Witch!” My trial had been brief and long ago, and, as many were at that time. I had no choice but to rest upon the hope that her memory of the charges against me was hazy, given her advanced years, and that the here and now were where her attention must be focused in order for her to manage her position in the house.

“Fetch Mistress Carmichael a pot, girl,” she instructed Tillie, the kitchen maid. “No, not that one! Would you have our visitor think us down at heel? Here”—she snatched a fine enamel pan from the hook above her head—“This shall serve, I trust.”

She handed it to me unsteadily, the direction of her aim a little askew from where I stood, and with relief I realized that her eyesight was pitifully poor. The maid was in her teens, which meant neither of them would be able to identify me. I found myself able to relax into my task.

I chopped the woody lavender and the leafy chamomile, flowers as well as leaves, and then ground them finely using a pestle and mortar. If felt strangely good to be working with the old, simple tools and methods again. The very same ones my mother had taught me. Soon the kitchen was filled with the heady perfume of the lavender and the lemony scent of chamomile. I tipped the herbs into the cooking pot and covered them with freshly drawn water. I placed the pan on the stove and stirred slowly. I was keenly aware of my audience, and kept my voice to a whisper as I recited the words that would charge the aromatic mixture with a spell.

“Flowers of forest and garden, grown with love and tended with care, answer the wishes of one of your own. A hedge witch needs your soothing power. Work your gentle magic. May the fumes of your flowers and the steam of your stalks find their way to the one who needs you. Soothe the one who breathes in your precious vapors. Calm her with your ancient oils. Send her slumber, short but sweet and filled with pleasant dreams. A hedge witch asks you. A hedge witch bids you. A hedge witch stirs your magic thrice deosil, thrice widdershins. Blessed be. Blessed be.”

A hush had descended. The two figures behind me stood stock-still. I put the lid on the pan and removed the concoction from the heat. Turning with a bright smile, I asked, “Have you a small jar or bottle with a tight stopper?”

Mary-Anne was just finding me what I needed when we were all three disturbed by unfamiliar sounds outside. It began as a rumble in the distance. Not thunder, but something more earthbound. As the noise grew louder and closer it seemed to shudder through the ground beneath our feet. We hurried to the window. At the far end of the long drive, the vanishing point where the avenue of lines converged, there came men. At first they were nothing but a few dark smudges, indistinct figures, but as they came on their numbers increased. All too soon it became evident that these were not ordinary men. These were soldiers. An army, in fact.

The kitchen maid began to whimper. “Lord save us!” she cried. “'Tis Cromwell's men! We shall all be run through with swords!”

“Hush, girl!” The housekeeper would not tolerate hysteria in her kitchen. “Get yourself home.” When the girl looked at her, wide-eyed and hesitant, the older women insisted. “Across the yard and through the woods to your father's cottage. Quick about it, now!”

The girl ran without so much as pausing to remove her apron. Mary-Anne handed me my stoppered jar. Wordlessly I took it, filled it with the vital potion, and slipped it into my skirt pocket. Whatever was coming to Batchcombe Hall now, Tegan was still in need of our help. William came striding into the kitchen.

“Cromwell's men!” he told us.

“What will we do, sir?” the housekeeper's voice trembled. This must have been a moment they had all dreaded for so long.

“There is little we can do,” William said. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Be at ease. They have no need to harm anyone here.”

“They will take the house?” I knew as I asked it was more of a statement of fact than a question.

“They will. And if I cooperate there is no reason for them to treat us harshly. We have all given enough to this war. Let the generals move their armies where they will. We will bide our time and find a life the other side of this terrible struggle.”

Outside the company had almost reached the house. There must have been close to a thousand men, some infantry, some cavalry, some drawing canon. At the rear came wagons with provisions and encampment supplies. We could clearly see a rider carrying the colors of the Parliamentarians now, and beside him a small group of soldiers whose accoutrements and uniforms suggested they were high-ranking officers.

“I will go out and meet them. This can be done well. Stay here,” he said to me, briefly snatching up my hand and surprising me by pressing it to his lips. “I would keep you safe, Bess. You need not declare your friendship with me. A miller's sister is far better in the eyes of Cromwell's officers than someone who would ally herself to a Royalist family.”

“But, William…”

“Stay here. When you see a moment, slip away, back to Erasmus. I pray God you are still able to save Tegan.” Before I could protest further he turned for the door. As he did so there was a shout from one of the soldiers. We looked out and saw a horse being ridden at speed, charging across the parkland, heading directly for the officers at the front of the company. The rider had a musket drawn and was aiming it wildly.

Beside me William gasped. “Richard! Dear Lord, no!” He ran from the kitchen, but even before he had reached the door shots were fired. There were furious cries and oaths. All descended into a moment of madness. Richard succeeded only in shooting a hole through the Parliamentary standard before his horse's bridle was grabbed so violently the animal fell, throwing its rider across the dusty ground. The boy was winded and in pain but was hauled to his feet. Even from the kitchen we could hear his furious words.

“Death to Cromwell's unholy murderers! God save the King!”

“Silence that dog!” the nearest officer commanded, causing one of his men to punch Richard full in the face. Still the boy struggled and swore, spitting blood as he did so.

William appeared, his hands held high.

“Please, let him be!”

At the sight of him running toward them three soldiers drew their swords and grabbed hold of him.

“He is my servant,” William explained. “He was only attempting to protect me. Richard, be still now. There is nothing to be done!”

I wonder, even now, what would have happened if the young man had listened to his master. How different things might have been, for all of us, if he had reined in his temper, mastered his grief, and become quiet. But he was filled with years of hatred, stuffed full of the desire to avenge his family, his youthful blood up, all restraint fled. With a strength and speed that took the soldiers by surprise, he wrenched himself free, snatched a sword from an unwary musketeer to his left, and charged with it at the mounted colonel in front of him. The officer, an experienced campaigner, calmly drew his own sword and raised it. William, seeing what was about to happen, screamed out and flung himself forward, but he was too firmly held to do anything but bring his captors down upon him.

“Death to the traitors!” Richard screamed. They were to be his last words. The colonel's sword sliced down in one expert movement, and Richard stopped. He seemed to be suspended for a few seconds, neither standing nor falling, his expression still one of fierce anger and determination. And then his eyes closed and he slumped to the ground, blood pumping from the mortal wound that had opened him from throat to groin.

“No!!” William roared.

I could watch no longer but ran from the kitchen, deaf to Mary-Anne's pleas to stay where I was. Before I reached William he had been pulled up to his feet once more. Orders were being barked, commands given, but it was all nothing more than noise to poor William, who gazed, heartbroken, at Richard as the last of his blood seeped into the thirsty ground.

At last he returned to his senses, enraged. “He was but a boy!” he shouted, directing his words to the officer in charge, who was now calmly sheathing his sword. “Is that what you truly are? Killers of children?”