by Lucy Jago
“William, I am sorry for what happened; I never meant any harm to you. You are my true friend.”
William looked at her as he struggled to his feet, his eyes brimming with tears of fury. “A real friend would not have used me to make her point.”
Cess’s eyes widened. How could William think she would use him? She was so surprised that she could find nothing to say and watched mutely as he limped away.
The rain stopped during the afternoon, and as evening fell, the crescent moon, little more than a fingernail, could be glimpsed through scudding clouds. Cess pulled a shawl over her head and joined the other villagers in the breezy darkness, walking toward the great house. They were shouting and laughing, excited about the entertainment to come. No one had seen fireworks before, and it was rare for new things to come into their lives.
After William had left, she had felt furious with him for not understanding what she had done and why. Surely it was obvious that she had wanted to defend him, to show others that he deserved respect? But as the shadows around her lengthened and the owls hunted, she had calmed down and tried to picture herself in his place. She understood that by assuming he needed someone else to defend him, she had not considered his feelings. She realized that her fury was as much about her own humiliation at being fatherless as it was about William’s crippled foot.
She slipped unrecognized through the crowd, anxiously looking everywhere for her friend. At last she saw him, pressed up against the fence that divided the villagers in the orchard from the gentlefolk, who were strolling across the bowling green and admiring the lawns and formal gardens close to the great house, their cloaks and wide skirts whipped about in the breeze. She stood next to William for a while, willing him to feel her presence and accept the unspoken apology that it implied, but he was too busy craning his head in the direction of the house, worried he might miss even a moment of the spectacle. In the deepening darkness, the pale stone of the house glowed.
“Have you ever seen so much glass?” asked Cess, looking at the diamond-pained windows aglow with a thousand candles. Although William’s home was well built, with a second floor and a chimney, it was his mother’s constant complaint that they had no glass and had to light candles even by day when bad weather forced the shutters closed.
William turned reluctantly, peering under the shawl to verify that it was indeed Cess. Before he could reply, the loudest noise they had ever heard made them both yell and cling to each other in terror. It ripped at their ears, and they were blinded by a profusion of bright-colored sparks shooting into the night sky. All about them villagers screamed and ran across the orchard, some toward their houses, others toward the woods.
“The Devil is come!”
“It is the Last Day!”
“The sky is ripped. Help us, Lord!”
One after another came great bangs and crackles as the night was filled with shards of color. William and Cess cowered behind the fence in terror, peering through the wattle to see what was causing the terrible noises.
“They’re not frightened,” shouted William into Cess’s ear as he realized that none of the noble guests were running away or screaming, but laughing and pointing at the sparkling flames.
“They’re fireworks!” shouted a gaggle of stable boys and grooms toward the backs of the fleeing villagers. “They will not kill you! The Queen herself loves them!” They laughed, enjoying their superior knowledge gleaned by talking to the men from London in charge of the display.
“Fireworks,” breathed William in awe, standing up and gazing into the sky. His thirst for all things new and clever was rarely satisfied in the village. “These must be the explosions,” he said, captivated by the sight. “I must find out more.” William was determined to question the stable boys until he had every ounce of information they could give him, but he hesitated. Despite being furious with her, William still possessed the manners to know that it would be discourteous to leave Cess alone.
“Yes, of course,” Cess said hurriedly, once she had realized why William was waiting. “I shall go to Edith. No one will notice with these explosions.” Although she too was riveted by the whistling, booming lights bursting overhead, she knew it would be some time before she had another opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
Another firework filled the sky with burning colors, the wind blowing some of the sparks into the shrieking crowd. A kaleidoscope of hues illuminated William’s awestruck expression, and without thinking about it, Cess darted forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. The surprise in his face was chased away by a closed, dark expression. He would not forgive her easily, she saw. He pulled back, nodded stiffly, and walked away.
Turn around, she pleaded silently. Make a face, give me a sign that you forgive me. But he did not. Cess felt little bits of her heart being ripped out as he went. He was the only person in the village who loved her, as a brother or as a man for his wife she was no longer quite clear, but now she had forfeited his affection through her own hotheadedness.
Sadly, she pulled her shawl closer around her face and pushed her way to the edge of the crowd and through the orchard to the servants’ drive. A few stragglers were rushing up the drive, but the Borough was deserted. Cess paused a moment, unnerved by the earsplitting bangs and the lurid splashes of color that made the familiar street look eerie and unreal. She walked quickly through the Borough, past the shuttered shop fronts. No candlelight winked anywhere. As she turned into Middle Street she came to an abrupt halt and stared into the distance. She could have sworn a pale shape flashed across the end of the lane by the church. It looked like a ghost.
“Must have been an owl,” she muttered, forcing herself on. Where Middle Street met Bishopston, Cess removed her clogs and ran barefoot through the darkness. The fireworks continued, but the bangs were growing fainter. The lane wound around the base of Saint Michael’s Hill, past the track to Abbey Farm, then struck out westward.
As Cess passed the track, she stopped short. A horse and rider were walking up it, and flying beside them was a huge white bird.
Cess watched as the man reached the farmhouse and kicked the door without dismounting. The dim light that spilled out when the door opened confirmed what Cess had already guessed. The visitor was Drax Mortain.
A few moments earlier and she would have met him in the lane. Knowing that his business might be short, and that the high, dense hedgerows would trap her in the lane until she reached the far stile, she ran on, wondering what Drax could want with the owner of Abbey Farm. It seemed unlikely the great noble would pay Nicholas Joliffe, a farmer too fond of his drink, the honor of visiting without good reason, especially at night and while a great fete was being held at Drax’s father’s house.
Cess did not hear the sound of hooves over the fireworks and her labored breath until they were almost upon her. She could not run faster, and the hedge was too high to jump. She threw herself instead at the foot of it on the dark side of the lane and wriggled under as far as she could. Hawthorns tore the skin on her arms and legs, and the brambles dug into her flesh like a thousand claws. She covered her face with her arms and pushed her bare feet farther into the punishing barrier so that her pale flesh would not catch the rider’s eye. She lay motionless, despite wanting to groan with the pain of the sharp stones that dug into her ribs and the nettles that stung her.
A piercing whistle made her jump. The horse was coming to a stop so close she could smell its hot coat and the leather of the saddle. She was sure it would sense her fear. It took every ounce of resolve not to cry out when the animal began nuzzling her, pushing her to stand up.
“Bess!” growled Drax to the animal, pulling sharply on the reins. “What are you playing with?”
Cess’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. He would look down and see her. She tensed herself for the crack of a whip, but instead caught the soft sound of flapping wings. The great white hawk had come in response to its master’s whistle.
“My beauty,” whispered Drax to th
e bird. His voice was full of fondness. She could hear him stroking the hawk’s feathers and making little crooning noises.
“You did well,” Drax said softly, and with only the quietest tinkle of its bell, the hawk flew away. Drax kicked the horse and urged her on.
Once the clatter of hooves had faded, Cess rolled slowly out of the hedge, gasping in pain. Her bare flesh was covered in nettle welts and thin, bleeding scratches. Even under her clothes she could feel the damage the long thorns had inflicted.
She walked onward until she reached the last stile. A small wooden bowl had been left beside it. Pulling off the linen cover, she saw that the bowl was filled with fine golden honey. Although tempted to taste it, she knew for whom the gift was intended and covered it again so that it would not spill as she carried it. She crawled over the stile and pushed her way into the forest.
As the unofficial messenger between the village and the wise woman, Cess often visited Edith, but never before at night.
Moonlight barely filtered through the thick canopy of leaves, and she found herself banging into low branches and tripping on roots. The ground rose steeply and the way was treacherous and slippery with patches of mud. Cess found the going difficult, especially carrying the bowl of honey in one hand.
The fireworks stopped, and soon all she could hear above the wind in the trees was the call of owls and the distant barking of a dog in the village. An occasional night creature scuttled through the undergrowth nearby. Cess breathed as quietly as she could, afraid to wake the spirits of the hill. Like all the village children, she had been told the story of Saint Michael’s Hill as soon as she had the wit to understand it; village children were threatened with a night alone on the mount if they misbehaved. Faeries, hobgoblins, and unquiet spirits were said to inhabit it, and no villagers ever went there, except Cess. In the days of King Alfred, the abbot in Montacute’s priory had dreamed that a miraculous holy crucifix was hidden at the top of Saint Michael’s Hill. The villagers at the time dug where he directed, and a piece of black flint engraved with a crucifix had been discovered. Achapel was built atop the mount and became a place of holy pilgrimage. The monastery grew rich and powerful, dominating the village and surrounding areas. But God deserted the hill when King Henry VIII destroyed the monastery. Now only Edith lived there, and Cess was the only villager who knew where.
Out of breath and muddy, Cess found the clearing she sought and crossed it to reach a wooden hut at the far side. The shutters were closed, but chinks of candlelight escaped under the door. As she approached, she was surprised to hear not one but two female voices singing in harmony.
O song of nighttime, clothe my heart,
O fire of day, protect my soul,
O light of moonshine, play thy part,
And glorious sunshine fill my bowl.
The voices repeated the verse, like a monk’s chant, rhythmic and mystical. Cess did not want to interrupt, so she sat with her back against the hut and fell into a trance so deep that she did not notice when the singing stopped. She jumped like a March hare when a hand tapped her on the shoulder.
“Cecily, I hoped you would come,” said a tall woman with prominent cheekbones, who looked with concern upon the dazed girl. “You are hurt? What has happened?”
“Edith, I heard your beautiful singing,” stuttered Cess, as if waking from a long, deep sleep. She pulled herself up and embraced her friend. As her muscles relaxed, she realized how anxious she had been since the experience in the church and all that had followed.
“My sister is with me,” replied Edith.
“Sister?” said Cess, surprised. “I did not know you had a sister.”
Edith did not reply, but noticed the bowl of honey as she turned to go back inside. “Did you bring this?”
Cess took a moment to answer, confused by Edith’s revelation. “It was at the last stile,” she said, bending to pick up the honey.
Edith sniffed the contents of the bowl. “Delicious! It will salve your wounds. How did you get them?”
“I had to hide on the lane.” Edith did not ask more. She knew that Cess took great risks in coming to see her. As the older woman stroked her fingers over the scratches and bruises on her face, Cess saw the love that brimmed in Edith’s eyes. A warmth more blissful than that of any fire flowed from her. Cess knew she was lucky to know Edith.
Cess noticed that her friend looked different. Instead of her normal skirt and bodice, she wore a long, hooded cloak made of fine stuff. She had let down her wiry gray hair from its customary coif. Cess had never seen an older woman with her hair uncovered before, except her mother when she combed it. The effect was unsettling, almost as strange as seeing Edith naked.
She followed Edith into her shack, where the atmosphere was stifling after the clear, cool night air. Herbs had been placed on top of the fire in the central pit, and their pungent smell made Cess giddy. There were only two small lanterns to see by, and it was several moments before she perceived another woman in the smoky gloom. The woman’s head was bent to the fire, and she rocked slightly from side to side. She did not look up at Cess but threw some small buds into the flames, which popped loudly as the heat touched them. When the last bud flamed briefly and burned out, she slowly raised her head, and Cecily stared. The face smiling up at Cess was the woman in her vision.
“It is good to meet you, Cecily Perryn,” said the woman, observing the cuts and welts on Cess’s skin without comment. “My name is Alathea Woodeville. Come, sit beside me.” Cess noticed that Edith had not introduced her guest but that Alathea had taken the lead, even though this was Edith’s home. This would only happen if the visitor was of a much higher rank, but Alathea wore the clothes of a goodwife.
Her face was delicately pretty, her smooth skin framed by wisps of pale blond hair. But from this fragile beauty came a gaze of such strength and directness, boring into her very soul, that Cess could not lower her eyes, even though she wanted to. She sensed this woman could see all her secrets, and she squirmed as she sat beside her.
“I am Edith’s sister,” Alathea explained with a smile, although it was no explanation at all as Cess was sure Edith had no sisters. “I came yesterday to celebrate the Festival of Beltane with her.”
Taking hold of Cess’s rough, chapped hands, Alathea’s smile faded. “I come also with a warning of danger,” she continued, nodding at Edith, who came to sit on the other side of Cess. Strangely, although Alathea spoke of danger, Cess felt safe and tranquil in the presence of these two powerful women, as if this were truly her home.
“You have heard, perhaps, of the boy found this morning and the disappearance of others over these past weeks?” continued Alathea.
“I have,” answered Cess.
“The boy appeared to have died of the sweat, but we believe it is man and not nature that lies behind the death and disappearances. We fear great evil has been unleashed and that sorcery is involved.”
“Why are you telling me this?” said Cess. “I know nothing of man’s plagues or of sorcerers.”
Alathea appeared to consider her words carefully before continuing. “The evil threatens us all, everyone in the country, but it hovers closer to you than to others, Cecily,” she replied. Cess pulled her hands away, shocked by Alathea’s strange prophecy.
“Closer to me? What do you mean?” The questions tumbled out of Cess’s mouth. She felt Edith’s arm move protectively around her.
“You are in greater danger from this evil than I was when the villagers sought to take my life,” said Edith. The fear Cess saw in her friend’s face unnerved her. Cess was astonished that practical, clever Edith should be talking of “evil” just as the parson did.
“Evil?” repeated Cecily. “You mean, witches?” she asked, not knowing of anything else that could be so described.
“Not witches,” replied Edith firmly. “Witches do not involve themselves in such practices. They work only for good.”
“For good? Making people ill and putting disease in th
eir cattle!” cried Cess, shocked at what Edith was saying.
There was a long pause before Edith spoke again.
“Do you think I would do those things?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Cess answered immediately. “But you are not a witch.”
Edith moved to face her young friend and put her hands on Cess’s shoulders. She looked Cess straight in the eye, and without hesitation she replied. “Yes, I am.”
C H A P T E R 6
Sir Edward Mortain felt unusually satisfied as he stood on the terrace of Montacute House and looked out. The fireworks had been tremendous, and his guests were now strolling toward the ornate banqueting houses that adorned the two corners of the lawns farthest from the house. There they would enjoy sugar treats of marvelous invention, like a marzipan swan with jeweled eyes and real feathers. They could spear sweetmeats with their own silver sucket forks, a new fashion that was taking the court by storm; each guest had received one as a gift, engraved with their initials and the Montacute crest. His generosity and wealth would be in no doubt.
Many of the guests had been speechless when they toured the house with him earlier in the day. The great hall on the ground floor, at least twenty-five paces long, with its beautiful plaster friezes and elaborate stone screen to divide it from the passage beyond, where the hundred or more servants ate and where grand banquets would be held; the great chamber on the second floor, his private domain with its internal porch to keep out drafts, and a chimneypiece of white stone that reached to the ceiling, where he enjoyed after-dinner dancing with the most elevated visitors; the top-floor gallery, the longest in the country, had caused a particular stir. How his guests had laughed when he told them that he liked to take his horse up there to ride when it was wet out. Looking through the huge glassed windows at the rolling countryside beyond, all of which he owned, he allowed himself a moment’s pride. The walls were hung with recently finished portraits of his forbears (made to look much more illustrious than they had been), and only the picture of his wife and seven children, all of whom were now dead except Drax, had created a moment of discomfort. When he had announced during the feast that Queen Elizabeth herself was intending to visit, the guests had shouted and clapped their approval, for Montacute was a home splendid enough to welcome a woman whose love of magnificence was legendary.
