Witchrise (7 page)

Temptation assailed me.

Would it be such a terrible thing for me to give in and marry Alejandro, to become a wife and mother instead of a witch?

Yes
, my head told me furiously.
Yes, it would
.

Two days passed while I wandered the house like a ghost or sat hunched by the smoking fire in my bedchamber, wrapped in furs, brooding over what I should do about Marcus Dent. No answers came to me in the dark, though Alejandro’s face did, haunting my dreams and leaving me more dejected than ever.

When the third day dawned still cold but sunny, snow finally beginning to melt on the path into the woods, I knew what I had to do. Tired of my father’s unspoken disapproval over my relationship with Alejandro, and having to face Richard’s narrow stare everywhere I went, I decided to get away from the house and seek inspiration in my mother’s spell book.

First, I took the red-gold ring out of my mother’s casket and examined its strange double coils, slipping it momentarily onto my finger.

The air stirred oddly when I wore it, and my fingertips tingled as though the power was about to descend on me. Hurriedly I put it away again.

Richard had warned me not to wear the ring at least until he heard back from John Dee, and it was time I learned to be cautious about the practice of witchcraft. Even if my new-found caution came too late to save me from being dismissed from the princess’s service.

Instead, I took the more innocent-looking hazel wand and slipped it into the gartered top of one of my woollen stockings. It was an uncomfortable arrangement but one which I would have to bear if I wished to avoid being seen with it. My father had no knowledge of these instruments of my mother’s craft, and it seemed wiser not to flaunt them before him, given his recent display of temper.

With the grimoire concealed beneath my cloak, I muttered to William in passing that I needed a walk in the fresh air but would not go far, then hurried through the kitchen and out of the back door before my brother could protest.

I took the path into the woods, walking quickly and with purpose, and was soon lost to sight amongst the frosty trees.

With snow still on the ground, it was too damp to sit and read out of doors. But I knew a place where I could be both private and dry: Home Farm, the long-abandoned farm where I had seen the despicable Marcus Dent in a vision, and where we had dug up my mother’s magickal box.

Too dangerous to leave my mother’s precious belongings there unless hidden as well as she had hidden them. But back there perhaps I would find some peace. And a safe place to practise magick without breaking my promise not to cast a spell under my father’s roof.

On reaching Home Farm, I hopped over the mossed pile of stones which had once been a boundary wall, and made my way towards the old barn. I had often hidden there as a child, high up in the hayloft, thinking and dreaming on my back in the straw. Now, though, the upper loft door stood permanently open like an unlidded eye, and I could see that a bad storm had whistled through and brought the roof in at one end, for all the timbers were bowed, the whole building leaning towards the scene of devastation.

Gingerly I made my way across the uneven mud and debris, climbed the ancient ladder with half its rungs missing, and pulled myself up into the hayloft.

I turned on my heel to survey the damage, and was pleased to see that the far end of the barn roof was still intact. Even if it rained, I could stay dry here.

The wooden floor creaked ominously underfoot though, and I was forced to drop to my hands and knees, then crawl to my old place near the open doorway where I could see clear across the icy white meadows to the river.

Breathing deep, I opened the grimoire to the first page, and my mother’s name leaped out at me, written in fading ink.

Catherine Canley.

I traced her hand, admiring the curls and loops and flourishes of a bold female temperament. Bold or not, my mother had put aside her magickal gifts for ever when she married, knowing she could not be both wife and witch without the risk of bringing disgrace on her family. She must have loved my father very much to make such a sacrifice, just as I loved Alejandro.

Could I ever find the strength to make that sacrifice for love? I rather suspected my resolve would prove weaker than my mother’s.

I turned the next few leaves, reading slowly through the early entries. There I found her thoughts on the craft. Her fears of discovery and death. Tales of how her own mother had taught her the best times to gather herbs and plants, then prepare them for spell work; which moon was right for a love-spell, which for fertility rituals; the way to read augurs and omens, how the path of birds in flight could foretell the future.

I was frowning over her description of how to read the bones – for some details differed from my aunt’s teachings – when a noise made me stiffen.

I listened, and heard it again. The gentlest rustle below me in the barn, a sound like dead leaves stirring in the wind.

The day was still though, not even a light breeze blowing through the hayloft door which stood broken and open to the weather. Through that gaping hole in the wattle and daub, men in my great-grandfather’s day would have thrown winter hay down for the beasts, or dragged up the freshly gathered bales at harvest time, binding them with rough twine, and whistling or singing as they worked.

Today Home Farm was a wasteland, completely deserted except for me – and whoever was standing exactly below me in the barn.

Gently I closed my mother’s grimoire, picked up the hazel wand lying beside me, and waited.

Eventually I heard the noise I had been expecting. A tiny click, then a rustle, then another click. Someone was climbing the broken ladder into the hayloft, moving as slowly and silently as they could. Though only a ghost could have avoided making a noise on that ancient contraption, which shifted and creaked under the weight of a very mortal being.

I prepared myself, my heart racing, my mouth suddenly dry as I considered the various outcomes of being discovered with a book as dangerous as this.

A face appeared, frowning up at me from the narrow hole in the floor.

‘I don’t believe it!’ I lowered the hazel wand with a mixture of irritation and relief as I recognized my stealthy visitor. ‘Did you follow me all the way here?’

Richard glanced at the wand, then hauled himself into the loft. He seemed unconcerned by the swaying and groaning floorboards, limping towards me without any change of expression, his hand held out as though for a gift.

‘A simple tracking-spell. It works best with deer,’ he said drily. ‘But you would not have been hard to find even without it, the clear trail you left behind.’

‘Go back to the house, Richard. I came up here to be alone.’

He raised his brows, for my tone had been sharp. ‘Missing your one true love?’ he sneered.

I glared at his outstretched hand. He had not bothered with gloves, despite the cold weather. ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’

‘I want you to give me that wand before you do yourself a mischief with it.’ Richard halted in front of me, then crouched down, reaching for it. Before he could take it though, I muttered a word and the wand disappeared. His frown deepened. ‘Don’t behave like a child, Meg. Give me the wand.’

‘It’s mine.’

‘I do not doubt it. But you must let me take it. It’s too dangerous, it’s not for a novice. You can have it back when you’re an adept.’

‘I am hardly a novice, Richard. You have seen what I can do with my voice and hands alone. My skill is equal to the task. Besides, the wand is mine and I will not let you take it.’

‘Have you ever worked magick with a wand before? Do you even know the properties of wood from the hazel tree?’

‘I know it is the wood of white magick, that it protects the witch and helps her see far,’ I told him, struggling to answer his questions while keeping my spell steady to prevent the wand from reappearing. ‘I know it brings healing, and . . . and great wisdom.’

‘And that a circle drawn by the hazel wood is one of the strongest barriers against evil,’ he added, then nodded grudgingly, dropping his hand to his side. ‘Very well. If you will not relinquish the wand, so be it. But try to be sparing when working spells with it, Meg. You may find its effects more powerful than you intend.’

‘Thank you. I shall bear that in mind.’

‘You should not have disappeared today without telling anyone where you were going.’

‘I wanted to be alone.’

‘Marcus Dent is still out here somewhere. And he wants you dead.’

‘Sometimes I think everyone wants me dead.’

‘I don’t.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And nor does Alejandro. Though your doting Spaniard will want me dead if anything should happen to you again in his absence.’

‘Better make sure it doesn’t, then.’

His frown disappeared at that and he grinned, seating himself before me. ‘That is my plan.’ He looked at the grimoire. ‘So, what have you discovered?’

‘Not much,’ I admitted, and passed him the book.

He flicked through the pages as I had done, almost idly, then paused, raising his eyebrows.

‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He turned a few more pages, shrugging. ‘There was a spell to see from a distance, that is all.’

I stared, not understanding, then held out my hand for the grimoire. ‘Let me read it.’

‘No.’

‘The book belongs to me, not you. May I have it back, please?’

‘No point,’ Richard said shortly, turning the pages with a distracted frown as though looking for something. ‘It won’t work. My master tried to develop a similar spell some years ago and it was a disaster. I doubt a country witch would have fared better than the Queen’s conjuror.’

‘A country witch?’ I gasped. ‘Richard!’

‘How else would you describe her? Oh yes, I remember now, your mother served Queen Anne when she was younger. A court witch, then. But all the same, only a
woman
.’ He glanced at me sideways, surveying my face. The straight line of his mouth twitched. ‘You go very red when you’re angry, did you know that?’

I wrestled with the desire to turn Dee’s arrogant apprentice into a toad, or some other slimy or scaly creature, and watch him hop away, croaking. He would not be able to mock me then, nor withhold my mother’s grimoire from me.

‘Give me the book,’ I said, emphasizing each word so he could not fail to miss how annoyed I was.

Richard shrugged, then deposited the manuscript heavily in my lap. He stood, muttering, ‘Take it,’ and limped to the broken loft door as though intending to jump down into the farmyard.

But of course he did not jump.

Leaning against the gap in the wall, Richard looked out in silence, staring across icy tumbling meadows to where the river twisted and broadened in the valley bottom. It was a beautiful view, and one that I had always loved, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

I was puzzled by his abrupt withdrawal, and more than a little concerned that I had offended him. I had few friends and none but Richard who understood magick as I did. Chastizing myself for a too hasty tongue, I considered how I could mend this. It would be stupid to lose his friendship because of my headstrong temper.

‘Forgive me,’ I said in the end, unable to bear his silence. ‘It was my fault. I’m too ready to speak when I should listen.’

He made no reply, still staring down towards the river. But I saw his hand clench into a fist.

‘Perhaps we could go through the spell together,’ I suggested lightly, hoping he would take the bait. ‘It might work better with two.’

His head turned blindly, his face tight, the hurt shining in his eyes. ‘You do value my judgement, then?’ he asked. ‘I thought you did not.’

‘Only because I am a stubborn idiot.’ With my best smile, I patted the floor next to me. ‘Come back, I pray you, and help me decipher my mother’s hand. Many of these spells are in Latin and I cannot always make them out.’

Richard was flushed, his gaze not quite meeting mine. I must have offended him indeed, I thought, and was at once contrite.

‘I have a sharp tongue and often forget to be grateful. It is a fault that has been much remarked by my father, my brother . . .’ I had sent Alejandro away and might never see him again – I did not wish to lose Richard too. ‘I value your judgement very much, Richard. Please come and sit down with me.’

At last he moved, pushing away from the wall and limping back to my side. His eyes met mine briefly as he took the manuscript back and set it down in front of us on the dusty floor.

‘Very well, but we shall share the reading,’ he muttered, still defensive, then gave me a dry smile. ‘If that suits you, madam witch?’

‘What can you see?’

My eyes were closed, my hands resting lightly on my thighs as I knelt in the chilly hayloft. I had let my mind empty of distractions, or as many as I could block out. Now I drew a slow breath and tried to obey the terms of the spell.

But it was not a promising start.

‘Nothing,’ I admitted.

‘I told you the spell would not work.’ Standing above me, Richard waited another moment, then made an impatient noise. ‘Come on, we might as well go back to the house. It must be nearly supper time.’

‘Not yet,’ I insisted. ‘My mother would hardly have gone to the trouble of inscribing such a lengthy and detailed spell in her book if it did not work. Five more minutes, then we shall go back for supper. You have my word on it.’

When the place was still again, I tried harder, letting my mind sink into the silence, thinking as powerfully as I could of my father’s house. I conjured up in my mind the creaking stairway from the hall to the bedchambers, the narrow landing with the crack in the floor where you could see straight down into the heat and bustle of the kitchen, the smell of fresh-baked bread and meat turning on the spit rising to the rafters . . .

‘
Aspicio
,’ I whispered.

Suddenly I was flying.

I gasped as my body left the ground. There was a frightening weightlessness, and a tight feeling in my chest, a fear that I might fall. Colours spun about me in a blurred rush, green fields and the cold grey of the wintry sky. My hair was loose, blowing back over my shoulders as wind dragged past me, my body flying faster and faster.