Witchstruck (8 page)

The sun had finally set, and everywhere was steeped in the glimmering darkness of twilight. Birds still sang, and a bat flitted low past my head, its fleeting body almost brushing my hair.

I hurried across the cobbled yard to the kitchen door. There were shouts from inside, and the sound of Joan crying. I was too late.

I smelled of dust and dark magick and knew the remnants of my spell hung about me like tattered clouds around a mountain top. In this state, nothing but a miracle could save me from the witchfinder’s noose.

On impulse, I stooped to the gnarled old rosemary bush growing at the back door and dragged my fingers through its fragrant leaves. With any luck it might confuse those who sought to accuse me of witchcraft.

The scent of the fresh rosemary was powerful and dizzying, like a blow to the head. For a few seconds, it threatened to overwhelm me. Then I pulled myself together, lifted the latch and stepped inside.

Up in the long, narrow room that overlooked the park, I found Joan on her knees, head bent almost to the floor, weeping noisily into her filthy apron. Guards and servants crowded about her, shocked and uncomprehending, arguing over the girl’s head. It seemed the alarm had been raised immediately on her return to the lodge, for the room was crowded.

The thin-lipped old priest, Vasco Fernandez de Aragon, was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness as he muttered some prayer under his breath. Alejandro de Castillo stood by his side, his voice urgent in his master’s ear. I could only imagine what he was saying about me. Red-faced and furious, Sir Henry Bedingfield was remonstrating with Blanche Parry, whose arms were folded staunchly across her chest.

Even the burly cook had ventured up from his pots and pans to comfort the kitchen maid, and one of the guards was fitting a bolt to his crossbow, with little success, for his fingers were shaking so much it kept slipping from the notch.

The Lady Elizabeth herself was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was too sick to rise from her bed, even to discover the cause of all this commotion.

My appearance in the doorway brought them all to a sudden, prickling silence.

Then Bedingfield shouted an order. One of the guards seized my hands, dragging them painfully behind my back.
Perhaps
the man feared I would work some spell that would reduce them all instantly to dust.

I stood, unresisting, my face reflecting both my shock and an innocence I did not possess.

‘What is this we’ve been hearing, girl?’ Bedingfield demanded harshly, coming closer – but not too close. He snapped his fingers at the guard. ‘Bring the witch forward into the light!’

Alejandro had turned away from his master and was watching me now with sharp, intelligent eyes.

My face, ashen before, turned to uncomfortable heat under that gaze. If the Spanish novice had thought me a woman of loose morals before, receiving notes from my lover, slipping out to meet him at night, what must he think now that I had been caught practising witchcraft?

Bedingfield ordered one of the lanterns to be raised. He stared down into my face. ‘Joan tells us she saw you in the old palace tonight, working some kind of spell. She claims you are a witch, that she caught you calling on your master the Devil.’ He ignored the mutter that ran round the room. ‘Is this true?’

I shook my head with fierce denial. ‘No, sir, it is not true.’

Bedingfield was not a superstitious man, and I was counting on his sturdy, pragmatic nature to save me. But he was a clever man, and he could smell a lie when he heard one. He examined my face, then lowered his gaze to my gown and the
kirtle
underneath, the tell-tale streaks of dust along the hem of my skirts.

‘But you were in the old palace tonight?’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘Then you had better explain what you were doing there, and how Joan could have made such a mistake. And do not bother to lie, for it will go badly for you if we search the palace and find any unholy instruments of witchcraft hidden there.’

Alejandro stirred. His hand dropped to his sword hilt, and for an awful moment I thought that the young Spaniard intended to kill me there and then.

But of course he would not dare. Not in Elizabeth’s household, so openly, without even a formal trial having taken place. It would be impossible.

Yet still he gripped his sword hilt, his knuckles whitening with pressure.

I thought of the dagger I had hidden under the mouldering rushes. Night had fallen, and it would be too dark for the guards to search the old palace now, even armed with lanterns and torches. But come daylight, the dagger would be found and I would be thrown into prison to await my trial and execution.

Assuming the furious Alejandro de Castillo did not take the law into his own hands first.

I shivered, my mind working fast. ‘Sir, as God is my witness, I am no witch. Please, you must believe me. Joan
kept
wanting to explore the old palace, but I told her no. That it was too dangerous. Tonight, she ran away there instead of finishing her chores, and I had no choice but to follow. I . . . I did not want her to go in there alone.’

The cook turned to Sir Henry Bedingfield, his florid face filled with excitement at these rare goings-on.

‘That part is true, sir,’ he told his master eagerly. ‘Joan did slip away before she had finished her work. The lazy girl was there one minute, cleaning the pots from supper. Then the next, she was gone.’

Bedingfield gave a grunt, but I could tell he was still unconvinced. He looked back at me.

‘Go on.’

I could have kissed the fat-paunched cook for his help. But it would not do to show anything but fear to these men. That was what they expected of me, and what they must see. The danger was not over yet, not by any means. I still had my neck to save.

‘She ran upstairs, and I had to follow. I was afraid she would hurt herself up there. But it was so dark, and there were so many rooms, I couldn’t find her at first.’

I saw Joan look up at this lie. I was sorry to land her in trouble for running away, but if everything went well, neither of us would suffer for this night’s events.

‘Then I heard Joan cry out that she had seen a ghost,’ I continued, my voice gaining strength. ‘I followed the sound of her weeping, and found her terrified, hiding behind a
chair
. I took her downstairs and tried to comfort the poor simple thing. But she must have caught some reflection in one of the windows that scared her, for she suddenly screamed that I was a witch, pushed me over, and ran back to the lodge.’

I had everybody’s attention now. Even Joan was staring with her mouth open, no doubt trying to reconcile my fanciful account with her own memory of what she had seen.

‘By the time I got back to my feet and ran after her, she had already told everyone in the house that I was a witch.’ I injected a note of righteous anger into my voice. ‘But it’s not true, sir. I am a God-fearing girl and would never tamper with such evil.’

‘No one would expect a witch to admit her wickedness.’ Speaking for the first time, Father Vasco broke the silence that had fallen. Their heads turned to the old Spanish priest, listening to his suspicions with respect. ‘And this girl may be simple, but she seems fairly certain of what she saw.’

‘I swear on my mother’s grave, I am no witch.’

Bedingfield shrugged. ‘Well, I cannot uncover the truth in your account. But Father Vasco is right. Joan’s story is not entirely to be dismissed, for all she is a simpleton. We must rouse the Lady Elizabeth. You are her maid, so she should hear the testimony on both sides and decide what is to be done.’

My heart sang when I heard those words. Elizabeth
might
be angry with me for taking such an enormous risk, but at least she would save me from this accusation.

But the infuriating Blanche Parry would not allow Bedingfield to wake Elizabeth. Blanche stood her ground when he became angry, her arms folded stubbornly over her chest. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I will not have my mistress disturbed over this nonsense. She is still unwell and must not be upset. Any small thing and her condition worsens.’

‘Then I must send for the witchfinder, Marcus Dent. Witchcraft is a hanging offence, as you must know, and I would not be doing my duty as head of this household if I did not take Joan’s accusation seriously.’ Bedingfield paused, glancing at me. ‘Master Dent knows this girl’s family, and I’ve heard he has some skill in interrogation. Perhaps he will be able to uncover the truth behind these two contradictory accounts.’

My blood ran cold at the thought of being interrogated by Marcus Dent. His cold, sharp mind would leap straight to my aunt when he heard I had been accused of witchcraft, and although I felt sure I could handle Marcus, he had always disliked my aunt and would happily use this accusation as an excuse to investigate her too.

‘Joan is a simpleton. She does not know what she is saying, sir,’ I protested. ‘This is all a terrible mistake—’

‘Then Marcus Dent will be the man to clear it up for us, won’t he?’ Bedingfield thundered back at me, banging his fist on the table. ‘Be silent, girl. It is no longer your turn to speak.’

I suddenly wondered how many days I had left to live. Not many more, if this man’s belligerence was shared by the others who would examine me. My hands began to shake. Would Blanche even tell the Lady Elizabeth of the danger I was in?

Elizabeth’s gaoler asked for pen, ink and paper to be brought, and scratched out a brief note for his messenger to carry to Dent’s house, which lay just beyond Green Hanborough, a few hours’ ride from Woodstock by road.

I stood and watched him write his letter, wondering if I could use my gift to influence the man into letting this matter drop. But there were too many people here as witnesses. I could not hope to influence them all, I was not skilled enough for such a powerful magick. Especially with the two Spanish priests present, who had stood listening to every word of my explanation with suspicion etched on their dark faces.

Alejandro de Castillo had finally lifted his hand from his sword hilt, though the expression in his eyes was still dangerous.

Did the Spaniard suspect and hate me so fiercely?

I shook the question aside. It did not matter what he or anyone else thought of me. It only mattered what Marcus Dent could prove.

‘There,’ Bedingfield said, and handed the note to his messenger. ‘I have requested the witchfinder make his way here first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, you will both go
straight
to bed and not leave your bedchamber until called before Master Dent.’

‘I won’t sleep in the same room as the witch!’ Joan sobbed, hiding her face in her apron again.

‘There, there, silly girl,’ Blanche Parry said comfortably, and gathered her up against her chest. ‘You can sleep with me in the room next to the Lady Elizabeth.’ She glared at Bedingfield over Joan’s head, as though daring him to refuse permission. ‘She’ll be as well-guarded there as her ladyship, and I’ll make sure she does not leave the house.’

‘Very well.’ Sir Henry nodded to one of the guards, who had just come back in. ‘Have you searched her room? What did you find?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ the guard said, ‘except this, which was under the Lytton girl’s pillow.’

He was holding up the small white stone my aunt had given me to ward off those who were observing me.

Bedingfield looked at me. ‘Explain.’

I managed a maidenly blush, which was not hard given the way the Spaniard had been glaring at me throughout Bedingfield’s questioning, and hung my head.

‘’Tis a love stone, sir. Just a girl’s trick, nothing more. You place it under your pillow for a se’ennight, and at the end, you . . . you dream of your husband-to-be.’

There was some muffled laughter around the room at this fanciful explanation. Even Bedingfield’s usually stolid features held the faintest hint of a smile. I noticed that
Alejandro
was not amused, however, but continued to watch me sternly from the window.

The guard looked down at the white stone dubiously, then hurried to set it on the table before Bedingfield, as though just touching the thing might mean he’d have to marry me.

Bedingfield picked up the stone and turned it over in his hand. But it was only, after all, a small white stone, with no markings or carvings to reveal its true purpose, and he could find nothing remarkable about it.

‘I’ll show the stone to Dent when he arrives. He’s an expert in these matters and may be better able to tell us what it is.’ He dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand. ‘Take young Meg to her room, and make sure she stays there. I don’t want her slipping away before the witchfinder arrives.’

I found myself being led away to my chamber and imprisoned there in the darkness, without even the comfort of a candle. While the young guard coughed and shuffled his feet outside my door, I lay fully clothed on my straw mattress and tried not to imagine how it would feel to dance in agony at the end of a rope.

It was almost dawn when I heard the door creak open and someone come in.

In the gloomy half-light of my chamber, it was hard to tell who had come to visit me, though I could see that it was a man. One of the guards, perhaps, eager to torment me
before
I was taken away for good? I sat up groggily, ready to shout for help, but the man was too quick for me.

He kneeled on the edge of my mattress and clapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Hush, little witch,’ said a now familiar voice, heavily accented. ‘You don’t want to wake the whole household, do you? I’ve paid good coin for five minutes’ speech with you, and I’d like to get my money’s worth.’

I stared into Alejandro de Castillo’s dark eyes.

Slowly and cautiously, he removed his hand. I threw myself back against the pillow. ‘Five minutes’ speech? Or five minutes’ pleasure?’

Alejandro raised his brows, seeming to consider this question seriously. His gaze moved down and settled on my stockinged feet. I drew them up at once, hiding my feet beneath the folds of my gown.

‘If that had been my intention,
mi alma
,’ he replied coolly, ‘I should have asked for longer than five minutes.’