Witchstruck (19 page)

My father shrugged. ‘You must do what you can to save her, just as I must try to salvage the honour of our family.’

Outside in the hall, my brother embraced me and whispered in my ear, ‘God speed to Woodstock, Meg. If anyone can save Aunt Jane, it will be you.’

I ran upstairs to my chamber and dragged my battered travelling bag out from the window alcove. Into this I thrust my aunt’s precious athame, which I still kept under my pillow, then my spare gown and shoes, without much regard for how these would look when they emerged at the other end. I was more careful with the gown Elizabeth had given me for a New Year’s gift, folding it into the top of the bag and covering it with a cloth to protect the silk edging to the sleeves and bodice.

If only Alejandro were here, I thought feverishly. I could hardly wait to get back to Woodstock to see him, to ask his advice. Though he too might think it was a hopeless case and I should leave my aunt to her fate.

I barely even questioned my belief that I could trust Alejandro de Castillo, that the young Spaniard was someone I could confide in.

He should have been my enemy. But yet he had proved to be my friend too.

I shook my head at this notion and came away dizzy, struggling to hold the weight of such doubleness in one heart. Alejandro had risked his position as a novice to help me evade Marcus Dent’s interrogation.

But what would he say when he learned that my aunt stood accused as a witch and a devil-worshipper?

I had forgotten how beautiful the soft, sloping walls of Woodstock Palace were – particularly now, their ivy-covered stones bathed in the gentle reddish light of a spring sunset. Flakes of white cloud scudded across the sky behind the ancient towers, and below my feet the river rushed and gurgled on its way further into Oxfordshire. The small cart jerked and rumbled its wheels across the uneven stones of the bridge, and I sat down again, impatient to be home.

Home
.

That word surprised me. I had not realized Woodstock felt so much like home that I would prefer it even to Lytton Park, the house where I was born and grew up – albeit without a mother.

Aunt Jane had always been like a mother to me. And now she would die because of me. Unless I could stop Marcus Dent.

As we approached the first buildings, I saw Alejandro leaning against the gates to Woodstock Lodge, a tall figure in the fading sunlight. He straightened and raised a hand. He must have seen the cart from one of the upstairs windows and come down to meet me. His dark hair was uncovered, his olive skin visible from a distance against his white shirt and soft leather jerkin.

I jumped down impatiently from the cart a few yards from the gate and ran towards him, eager to see a friendly face. But I slowed my pace as I reached him, suddenly unsure of how he would receive such an enthusiastic greeting.

‘Sir,’ I managed, curtseying as he bowed his head. ‘Tell me, how does the Lady Elizabeth?’

His brows rose, and I knew he was surprised at my cool greeting after the manner of my departure, which had been far from cool.

‘You must come in and speak to her yourself – the Lady Elizabeth will be pleased at your return. Is that all you carry?’ He held out his hand. ‘Here, let me take it for you.’

Clumsy with fear, I tripped over my own feet as I passed through the guarded gate. Alejandro caught me before I fell.

‘Have a care you do not hurt yourself,’ he said softly in my ear, low enough that none of the guards could overhear. ‘How did you come by that gash on your forehead, Meg?’

‘It’s nothing,’ I lied instinctively.

My head was throbbing from where I had hit it against the banisters at Lytton Park. I rubbed at my aching temples but each touch only seemed to intensify the pain.

‘Come inside, you need to be examined.’

What did he mean by that? The remark seemed innocent enough, but perhaps there was a more sinister meaning underneath.

He spoke again, leading me forward, and I felt an agonizing pain shoot through my head. I saw traps in every word the Spaniard spoke, ambushes in every look he gave me. Even his smile held secrets. His gaze searched my face for the lies I was furiously trying to conceal.

Had Marcus Dent managed to reach Woodstock Lodge before me, and warn the princess and her household of my guilt?

It was cool and damp inside the lodge. I had forgotten what a shabby place it was. The passageway smelled of woodsmoke and wet dog. I leaned my forehead against the familiar crumbling brickwork and fought to control my breathing. Alejandro de Castillo was standing just a few steps ahead of me in the shadowy passageway, carrying my bag effortlessly under one arm, his brow knitted together in a dark frown.

He said something, but I could no longer hear his voice through the pain in my head. Then Alejandro gestured me to go upstairs, still frowning.

I stared at the swinging cross about his neck. He was
angry
. He knew the truth. They all knew, and soon I would be condemned along with my aunt, and led to the gallows for my punishment.

I took a step towards the stairs, and my knees failed. I cried out and pitched face-first into a well of darkness.

THIRTEEN

The Letter

I WOKE TO
an unlit, curtained chamber and stared upwards in silence. Slowly, I recognized the crescent-shaped damp patch on the ceiling, then the yawning, uneven crack that ran from window to door. It was my old room at Woodstock Lodge, the one I had shared with Joan.

There was someone nearby, breathing quietly in the shadows.

I sat up gingerly, frowning in anticipation, expecting to feel more pain in my head. Miraculously the pain had gone. I put a hand to my forehead, and found to my surprise that the cut had been bandaged.

‘Don’t mess with the bindings,’ Alejandro reprimanded me sternly from a chair near my bedside. ‘Mistress Parry applied salve to your hurt, then spent some time bandaging it to stop the bleeding.’

‘My head was bleeding?’

‘After you fell, yes.’ He stared at me, a tense frown in his eyes. ‘How did you hurt yourself? The servant who brought you here would say nothing.’

Briefly, I remembered Dent’s face, and his men rushing past me on the stairs, the jostling and crushing. Then my head knocking violently against the wooden rail of the banisters.

How could I tell him? Yet how could I not?

‘My aunt . . .’

He prompted me encouragingly when I stopped, unable to find the right words. ‘Your aunt?’

‘You remember Marcus Dent, the witchfinder?’ I closed my eyes against the look on his face. ‘He came to our house and took my aunt away, accusing her of witchery. He had brought an angry mob of villagers with him. There was a struggle, and I banged my head.’

He spoke angrily under his breath in Spanish, and I had the impression that he was swearing.

‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday. No, today.’ I shook my head in confusion. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep.’

‘It is near dawn now. So, yesterday.’

Remorse pricked at me fiercely. How could I have slept so long when my aunt was all alone, lying sick in some dreadful cell?

‘I must save Aunt Jane from that monster,’ I whispered.

Alejandro shook his head, reminding me of my father. ‘She’s beyond saving. Once your aunt has been accused of witchcraft, there is nothing to be done. The law must run its course.’

‘The law is corrupt!’

He did not deny this but sat looking at me steadily, his hands on the arms of his chair. ‘Tell me, what exactly do you plan to do? Burst into the courtroom and deny that your
aunt
is a witch? I doubt they would consider that an effective argument. Or pin them to their seats, perhaps, while you whisk your aunt away on a broomstick?’

My eyes narrowed to furious slits, my face suddenly flushed with heat. ‘So, you think I should do nothing?’

‘I think you too will be accused of witchcraft if you are foolish enough to attempt a rescue.’

‘You are as bad as my father,’ I told him angrily. ‘He wouldn’t lift a finger to help her either. He just let Marcus Dent take her. I don’t know why. My father has been nothing but an enemy to me recently.’

‘I am not your enemy, Meg.’

Alejandro rose from the chair near my bed and threw back the rattling curtain, once a handsome green fabric, that hung dusty and threadbare across the window.

A pale misty light flooded the room, and I could see more clearly now that Alejandro was back in his priestly robes. The dark hem brushed his sandalled feet, the corded belt with its leather pouch hung loose about his hips. He must have helped Father Vasco at evening prayers after I had been brought up here, then come straight back to my room to sit with me. A true Christian act, tending to the sick.

Surely now, with my aunt accused of devil-worship, and my own head as good as in the noose, Alejandro should begin to distance himself from me. Not find ways of disgracing himself too.

It was suddenly very important to me that Alejandro did
not
ruin his chances of becoming a priest by associating himself with me, already a suspected witch.

‘Why are you here, anyway?’ I demanded, forcing a note of contempt into my voice. ‘I am well enough now and do not need to be minded like a child. Should you not be on your knees somewhere, praying?’

He turned to stare at me, and I saw a hard colour come into his face. My temper flared, edged with fear. I wanted Alejandro out of my room. Without delay. The longer he stayed, the more dangerous it would be for him. But I knew only one thing would drive him from my side: my contempt for his calling, for the Order of Santiago.

‘Please leave,’ I insisted coldly, and looked pointedly at the door, more to avoid his gaze than for any other reason. ‘When I want a priest, I will send for Father Vasco. Though don’t hold your breath for that. I shall not want a priest even when they drag me out to the gallows. The only good priest is a dead one.’

After Alejandro had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, I thrust the dagger hurriedly inside the loose straw of my mattress. Then I swung my legs out of bed and attempted to stand.

The four walls of my room spun like dancers around a ribboned maypole and I had to sit for a while, perched on the edge of my narrow cot. Eventually, my vision cleared and the sickness in my throat abated. I groped across to the water bowl, grateful that someone had refreshed it for me.

Splashing my face, I was surprised to find that I had been crying. Had Alejandro noticed in the darkness? I fervently hoped not.

Straightening my crumpled gown, I rummaged in my travelling bag for a clean cap, then went to the door. I would not think about Alejandro, nor remember the look in his eyes as he left the room. I knew he must hate me for what I had said.

None of that mattered any more. My aunt was facing the most terrible of charges. She was too weakened by her sickness to use her arts to save herself from execution, and I had failed to stop them dragging her away. I might not admire my brother for his seditious beliefs, but he was right about one thing: the only person who might possibly be able to save my aunt now was Elizabeth.

I felt my way along the unlit corridor to the princess’s room, blocking out what I had said to Alejandro. If he hated me now, it was for the best. This thing between us would only confuse me at a time when I needed to be cold and clear and ready to fight.

Elizabeth was waiting for me in her chamber. While Blanche dressed her by candlelight, the shutters kept closed against prying eyes, she stood in the middle of the cramped room and heard me out. Elizabeth seemed more angry that I had been hurt during the arrest than that my poor aunt had been taken sick from her bed and now faced death by hanging. She
asked
if I had spoken to Alejandro since returning, and when I admitted as much, she brightened.

‘He has been distracted since you left. Father Vasco had to reprimand him more than once for failing to cover the holy wine after consecration, so that it had to be drunk before the next service.’ Elizabeth smiled indulgently at Blanche’s giggles. ‘Don’t laugh now, the poor old man was quite incensed. There were more than three cupfuls of wine left after Mass once, and he was almost on the floor by the time he had finished them. While Alejandro had disappeared off on one of his walks.’

‘His walks?’

‘Hush,’ Blanche muttered in her mistress’s ear. ‘Hold still now, my lady.’

Elizabeth stood patiently and sucked in her breath while Blanche laced up her gown at the back.

When this fiddly task had been achieved, the princess exhaled sharply. ‘Alejandro has taken to walking in the old palace grounds on his own, particularly when Father Vasco has gone to bed for his afternoon
siesta
. I see him on the hill sometimes from my chamber window, for Sir Henry Bedingfield no longer allows us to walk out beyond the river.’ Her small mouth pursed angrily. ‘Bedingfield claims his guards have grown lax these days and there are too many of my “creatures” staying down at the Bull for his comfort.’

Blanche snorted with indignation. ‘He should mind his
tongue
. My old husband Thomas is still in residence there, and he is not a “creature”!’

I could see Elizabeth was distracted, so I waited until she was dressed before asking if she would help my aunt. But all the while my heart was hammering with nerves, my brain repeating that it was too late, too late to save her.

‘Please, my lady, will you write a letter to Master Dent for me, and beg him to release my aunt? She is too frail and sick to have committed these outrages they accuse her of, yet even now she may have been charged and be awaiting execution.’ I bit my lip, determined not to let my tears spill. ‘All I ask is one letter, my lady.’

Elizabeth looked at me pityingly. She had lost her own mother to the axe, even if she had only been a young child at the time. She must understand something of the pain I was suffering on my aunt’s account, and certainly her small dark eyes seemed to say so.

‘I am very sorry to hear of this injustice. But I do not think a letter from a suspected traitor and heretic will help her case.’