Witchstruck (23 page)

Dent would not dare touch Alejandro, of course. Only a fool would attack a Catholic novice now that the terrifying priests of the Spanish Inquisition had arrived in England. But I had never been important. The cruel and wealthy Marcus Dent could enjoy taking his leisurely revenge on my body for refusing him, and no one in Oxfordshire would raise a finger to stop him.

They caught my brother Will a few moments later. We heard a brief tussle between men further up the gloomy lane, then the distinct rasp of a blade being drawn, and I feared for my brother’s life.

Someone called up the lane to ‘Fetch Master Dent!’ and the message came back – rather insolently, I thought – that Master Dent was in the ale-house with the magistrate, and to bring the Lytton boy there. The men dragged him back up the lane, Will protesting loudly all the way that they
had
got the wrong man, that he was innocent of any crime.

We stood in the mud ruts and listened to his struggles as they came towards us. So long as no one thought to look into the field that bordered the lane, we should be hidden by the friendly dusk and this hedgerow at our backs, its spiny branches peppered with white blossom. But my clothes were not dark enough, nor was my pale face. I would stand out against the hedgerow if anyone thought to glance over it, and then the men would have two more prisoners to show Master Dent.

I leaned against Alejandro and tried to weave my spell without making any sound, mouthing the words with only a thread of breath.

‘Obscure! Lady of the Night, cast your black cloak over us . . . Make us invisible to men . . . Invisible . . .’

Grass grew coarse at the edge of the field, thrusting up as high as my waist in places. Its greeny-brown seedheads swayed and rustled gently in the breeze. I stared at the tall grasses as though my life depended on them, letting the spell fill the dark air around us.

The men were almost level with us. I could hear the scrape and thud of their boots on the mud track.

‘
Obscure!
’

I closed my eyes, willing us to be invisible to them. A wood-pigeon cooed from a nearby copse as though calling for its mate; its deep throbbing note buzzed right through my body. I could not hold my breath any longer. But the
spell
held, at least. The men in the lane passed by without even bothering to make a search, still discussing what reward they might receive for my brother’s capture. Their brutish voices faded as the men turned into the market square and headed away across the village.

I looked down at my hands and could see nothing. Not even my gown against the hedgerow. Nor Alejandro, his body warm beside mine.

We were both invisible.

I heard Alejandro’s sharp intake of breath and hurriedly broke the spell, not wishing to alarm him.

‘
Reveni!
’

Visible again, I felt light-headed, burning with anger as though with a high fever. I did not know what would happen if Alejandro were to let go of me, but I was glad he was there. Very glad indeed.

Part of me wanted to break away from Alejandro and run after those men like a howling banshee, screaming my beloved aunt’s name in the darkness until they scattered in terror. But another part of me was afraid of those men, deeply and horribly afraid. The image of Aunt Jane’s tortured face through the smoke and heat came back to haunt me, and it was all I could do not to faint again.

Held up by Alejandro’s restraining arms, I did not move even after the men had gone. Perhaps I suspected that if I moved, I would fall to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, my legs no longer able to support me.

‘Well done,’ he whispered in my ear.

I shook my head and felt his hands drop away. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes, though to my credit I managed to stay upright. I was ashamed of my fear and weakness. And something else: I was ashamed that I had been thinking about Alejandro while my brother was being dragged away.

‘The letter . . .’ I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, unable to finish.

Alejandro nodded, an odd tension in his face. ‘The letter,’ he agreed grimly, and looked up at the first pale pinpricks of stars against the approaching blackness of night. ‘It’s time to find my servant Juan.’

We met Juan on the road and reached the Bull Inn just after midnight. As we entered the village, the Watch came round the corner, calling the hour aloud, and we had to duck back into the shadows until the old man with his swaying lantern had passed on his rounds.

Alejandro had helped me down from the cart just outside the small village of Woodstock, and told Juan to wait for us at the crossroads with both horses, safely out of sight behind a thick hedge of elder. We would continue on foot, so as not to alert anyone to our presence in the village.

I was exhausted, stumbling on towards the first houses like a drunkard, but what he had said made perfect sense. For all we knew, Dent was expecting us to call at the Bull Inn and might well have posted some of his men there, to watch for us.

I had done nothing treasonous. But if they could arrest one Lytton for fighting in the street, they could certainly arrest another for refusing to marry a man as influential as Marcus Dent.

Alejandro knocked softly at the bolted side door to the inn, and spoke to the landlord when he arrived. The man was irritated at being disturbed so late, but accepted a few coins in return for allowing us in off the street.

‘You can’t sleep here tonight,’ he muttered, looking us up and down once he had finished bolting the door again. ‘Not inside the inn, at any rate. There may be room in the stables for you,’ he admitted, addressing Alejandro, ‘but not the girl. It’s a rough, dirty place, not suitable for a female.’

‘Is Master Lytton here?’ I demanded, ignoring the man’s quick frown.

‘What’s it to you, girl?’

I threw back the hood of the travelling cloak Alejandro had given me to keep out the night’s chill. ‘I’m his daughter and I wish to see him.’

The landlord hesitated, licking his lips, and I knew with a thrill of certainty that my father was here.

I raised my hand and pointed at his face, speaking slowly and with power. ‘We need to speak with Master Lytton tonight. You will show us where he is, and quickly. Take us to him now!’

SIXTEEN

Rebels

A FEW STEPS
up the back stairs of the Bull Inn brought us to a tiny room set below the eaves, the ceiling as low as the door, the whole place in darkness. There we found my father slumped over a book by the light of a single candle, an empty flask of ale at his elbow, his shoes off, his clothes awry.

My father jerked upright as we entered, clearly alarmed at the intrusion. Then his face changed, and he sneered when he saw who it was.

‘Get out, you weak-minded fool,’ he told the landlord, and repeated this in a loud voice until the man stumbled away in confusion, dragging the door shut behind him.

My father was drunk, his words slurred.

I stood and looked at him, my temper flaring. My lips tried to form the word ‘Father,’ but I couldn’t bring myself to breathe sound into his name. ‘Where is the letter?’

‘Which letter would that be?’

So he was going to play the ignorance game. Why was I surprised?

I stared across into my father’s glazed, bloodshot eyes and knew him for the worst sort of cowardly traitor – a man who would not stir to help his own blood. The heat of my fury was as white-hot as the fire that had consumed my aunt.

‘The letter you stole instead of allowing it to reach the magistrate,’ I said delicately into the silence. ‘The letter written by the Lady Elizabeth at your suggestion, begging for my aunt to be released and for the charges against her to be dropped.’

My father was surprised by how much I knew: it was in his eyes. But he kept smiling as he struggled to his feet. His chair fell backwards with a crash. ‘I see, I see. And why on earth would I do that, eh?’

‘So you and my cousin could take the letter abroad to persuade the Queen’s enemies of Elizabeth’s support.’

My father laughed then, rather wildly, and swayed, almost falling.

‘You always were a clever child, Meg. Far cleverer than your brother, that’s for certain. A pity you were born a girl. You could have had a promising career at Oxford or Cambridge.’

I stared at him, and struggled hard against the impulse to tell him precisely what I thought of him. He was still my father, and I had to love and respect him.

Honour thy father and thy mother
.

I wondered why God would enforce such an impossible commandment when He must know how many unworthy fathers crawled on the face of the earth.

‘You left her to burn,’ I said hoarsely. I shook my head, utterly at a loss. ‘My mother’s sister, the woman who raised me from a baby. Why would you do such a terrible thing?’

‘Your aunt died so that England can become free,’ my father told me, throwing his shoulders back as though proud of what he had done. ‘Yes, that letter will rally the Queen’s enemies to our cause. Believe me, Meg, I didn’t want your aunt’s death on my conscience. But there was no other way. If Malcolm had succeeded in persuading you to allow him five minutes alone with the princess, he could have taken some other token of her support to the Low Countries. But when your aunt was taken by Dent, we suddenly saw what could be done with a letter of clemency from the Lady Elizabeth.’ He smiled. ‘You played your part in that well, Meg. I was proud of you.’

‘You tricked me. You left Aunt Jane to die.’

‘She was a proven witch!’

I looked at him steadily. ‘I am a witch too, Father. Aunt Jane taught me her craft. What do you say to that? Would you have left me to burn too?’

He seemed unsteady on his feet, and leaned against the desk, staring at me. ‘You . . . a witch?’

‘Did you never suspect?’

His mouth moved silently, as though praying. ‘Sweet Jesus. These last few years, yes, there were signs that you were no longer the good child I remembered, so innocent . . . I guessed your aunt must hold some strange influence over you. She was always a dark, secretive creature; she and your mother were forever whispering in corners. But I did not know how far it had gone between the two of you.’ He
sat
down heavily, a frown knitting his thick brows. ‘Does Dent know what you are?’

I nodded, and saw my father’s face grow pale.

‘You little fool,’ was all he managed, not looking at me, but I could see that he was troubled.

‘And what of my brother?’ I asked angrily. ‘Why did you run away in the night with Malcolm, when you knew Will would try to save Aunt Jane?’

My father hesitated. I could see remorse in his face, but also the dogged belief that he had done no wrong. ‘Your brother weakened. He would not see that his aunt’s death was a noble sacrifice to the cause. Yes, Will wanted to use the letter to save her life. But that would have lost us the chance to rouse the princess’s followers and lead an army against the Queen. So Malcolm and I decided to leave Lytton Park without him, and intercept the letter ourselves. Besides, Will is safer at home.’

‘Will was arrested earlier this evening. He had gone to see if he could change Dent’s mind about condemning Aunt Jane, but he was too late to save her. As I was too.’ My voice cracked a little with pain. ‘We saw him dragged away by Dent’s men. I don’t know on what charge.’

My father ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Dent will not harm him,’ he muttered, but I could see this unexpected news had left him uneasy. ‘He is a witchfinder, and my son at least is innocent of that foul charge. You had better pray you do not fall into Dent’s hands though if he knows you
took
some knowledge of the dark arts from your aunt.’

We sat a while in silence. I was so tired I could hardly speak, nor think what was to be done in this unholy mess.

My father stood and went to the washbowl. He wiped his face with a damp cloth and straightened his clothes, the effects of the ale slowly beginning to fall away. But he could not disguise any more what he had become over the years – a drunkard and a coward. My father’s once handsome face seemed dissolute to me now, fallen into deep lines and creases, his breath reeking from the ale he had been drinking.

Suddenly, Alejandro slammed his hand down on the table, making us both jump. ‘The princess’s letter,’ he reminded my father fiercely. ‘Where is it? We have wasted enough time here with the princess’s life at stake.’

My father straightened, staring at him. ‘I do not know you, sir,’ he said with cold dignity. ‘Nor why you come here in the company of my daughter. But I do know a Spaniard when I smell one.’

Alejandro’s eyes narrowed on my father’s face, but otherwise he seemed unmoved by the insult. ‘My name is Alejandro de Castillo, Master Lytton. The rest need not concern you, though you may rest assured that your daughter is perfectly safe in my company.’

My cheeks were tinged with heat, my temper quickly rising. How dare my father speak like that to Alejandro? I was desperately ashamed of my own kin and wished I had not
seen
my father in this state. But I also knew what I had to do.

‘Just give us the letter and we’ll leave you in peace,’ I told my father angrily, impatient now to be out of that stinking little room. ‘If it should be used in any uprising against the Queen, the princess will be charged with treason. I should never have asked the Lady Elizabeth to write it, for it did no good and may yet do great harm.’

There was a silence. My father walked to the chamber window and back, his gait still unsteady.

‘I don’t have the letter,’ he said at last.

Alejandro raised his dark brows. ‘And you expect us to believe that?’

‘It makes no odds whether or not you believe me,’ my father said bluntly, and I knew from his face that he was speaking the truth. He indicated his jacket on the bed, his book and papers on the table. ‘Search me, if you must. Search this room. You will not find the Lady Elizabeth’s letter.’

Alejandro took him at his word and searched the room rapidly but with meticulous care. He glanced across at me afterwards and shook his head.