by Lucy Jago
“I saw her little and don’t know where she lay her head.”
“You did not come back in the evening?”
“No,” he said with mounting irritation. “This morning.”
“Did you forget her?” asked Anne, bold in her fear.
Joliffe’s face, always ruddy, turned puce. “Forget her? I helped her out when everyone else refused to let her ride on their cart!” He slammed the door in Anne’s face, but she stayed rooted to the spot, thinking what to do. When they had courted, Joliffe had been the most handsome man in the village. His family was as prosperous as the Perryns, owning large tracts of farmland and leasing more from the Montacute estate. He was handsome and warm and had pursued Anne with a romantic vigor that had been the envy of her friends. His only vice, and that a common one, was to drink too much on feast days. Anne had never believed that he could drink so much that he had killed his own friend in a brawl. He would have loved her all the more for her faith in him, she knew, but she never had the opportunity to show it. Something had happened too awful to think or speak about, and their romance had been just one of the victims.
She was not too proud to beg Joliffe to return to Yeovil for Cess, but she knew he would refuse. She walked away with quick anxious steps, lowering her head and pulling her shawl over her face.
C H A P T E R 13
Cecily?” said Edith, pulling back the deep hood that hid her face. “Are you ailing? What brings you here on a workday, and who is this?”
Cess threw herself into the older woman’s arms. “They caught us in Yeovil…me and…This is Jasper…They threw us in a cellar…It’s all my fault William’s there. He came to find me. It’s monstrous what they are doing…The boy died…Jasper,” she said, trying to collect herself, “this is Edith Mildmay.”
Edith nodded a hello and held Cess until she quieted. “You will tell me all. But now we must hide.” She looked around the clearing as if she could see for miles through the thick forest. “You are being followed.”
Edith moved quickly, ignoring the ruins of her shack, and plunged into the woods, followed by Cess and Jasper. After a few minutes she motioned them to stop beside a rocky outcrop. Moving to one side she felt about on the forest floor until there was a click. Cess watched in astonishment as Edith lifted out a square of earth to reveal the top of a ladder leading down into darkness. She gestured for Cess and Jasper to climb down, and followed them, quickly closing and bolting the trapdoor.
The ladder was only about twice Cess’s height, but the shaft was so dark she had to feel her way down. She felt strange breaths of warm air on her skin. Once her feet were on hard ground she stepped to one side and waited for the others.
“Where are we?” Cess whispered.
“In a tunnel,” said Edith as she felt about for two small rush torches and lit them. She pushed them into rusty metal brackets. Cess could just make out the walls, which were in parts brick but mainly stone and bare earth interspersed with wooden props, the ends lost in darkness. A ledge was cut into one side, on which was a thin straw pallet. There were niches for candles and Edith’s few possessions. The rock and earth floor was wet with puddles, and an irregular drip of water echoed across the cheerless space.
“This is a wider part. One way leads up to the chapel on Saint Michael’s Hill. The other to the ruins of the priory and on to Montacute. They used to connect with the old great house, but I don’t know if they still do now the house has been rebuilt.”
“They look ancient. Are they safe?” asked Jasper, eyeing a wooden prop that was sagging under the weight of earth above.
“They’ve been here at least three hundred years, built by the monks of the priory and the nobles at the old house. I don’t know if it was the Mortains then, but it might have been. They wanted to worship on Saint Michael’s Hill where a miraculous crucifix was found, but the Norman lord who took over this part of Somerset built his castle there and stopped them.” While she spoke, Edith led Cess to the ledge and indicated that she and Jasper should sit. Cess was exhausted. “So the family and the monks dug beneath him to the chapel. The tunnels were only used for about thirty years and forgotten afterwards, except in the stories parents told children and by my family, who have always collected a very special fungus down here.” Edith lifted the lid from a small pile of ashes and blew on them until they glowed.
“But if the tunnel goes to the priory, that is where the boys are being killed, where William is, in the cellars. We are not safe here.” Cess’s eyes were huge in the torchlight, full of terror at what she had seen and what she feared ahead.
“The entrance to this tunnel is well hidden in the crypt of the priory, linked to the cellars by a short passage, but we must be mindful to talk quietly, for sound echoes strangely down here. Anyway, there is no other sanctuary for us hereabouts,” said Edith matter-of-factly.
“We heard the monks talking,” said Cess.
“Monks? Are you sure? They are usually men of peace and learning,” said Edith.
“We think they were monks or priests. They wore long black robes and spoke in foreign tongues and some used Latin. Except the leader, that blond man we saw in the woods, whom they call Father Garret. He is an English gentleman. They are planning to kill the Queen and her heir.”
“To kill the Queen?” repeated Edith. She stared at Cess, shocked.
“And murdering those boys has something to do with it,” added Jasper. “They want to return the country to Catholicism.”
Edith nodded gravely. “These men hold extreme views, I have heard of them. They are trained on the Continent and smuggled into England. The majority of Catholics in this country are law-abiding people, wanting only to practice their faith without persecution. They are as much afraid of the radicals as everyone else, if not more so, for their murderous plots make all Catholics appear to be enemies of the Queen. It is a sad state of affairs.”
“These men have all manner of glass jars and flasks, and William said they scraped his skin and gave him the disease,” said Cess, frowning deeply in a way that made her look much older than her thirteen years. Deep in thought, Edith distractedly handed them each a meager cracked lump of greasy cheese and a wizened apple from a small barrel. Jasper took the poor fare with distaste.
“I do the same with the pox, of course,” said Edith. Cess noticed that Jasper’s eyebrows shot up, appalled. “To prevent deaths, not cause them. A weak amount of cowpox prepares the body, which then does not succumb to the deadly smallpox,” she explained. Jasper looked unconvinced.
“I am proof,” said Cess, leaning toward Jasper and showing him a scar on her wrist. “Edith tied a linen thread round my wrist that had been steeped in pus from a pox-ridden cow. Although I felt unwell for two days, when I later caught smallpox I was hardly ill.”
“These monks’ experiments must be to prepare a deadly dose of the illness to give the Queen,” said Edith, almost talking to herself. “Whereas I make a disease weaker before I give it, it sounds like they are making it as strong as possible. And no one will look for a killer because she will appear to have died of natural causes. Cecily, this is the evil that Alathea and I have seen.” Cess saw Jasper look between them with such an appalled expression she almost felt sorry for him.
“There was a man amongst them from Montacute, a page. We could not see whose crest he wore, so any lord could be behind this,” Cess told Edith.
“Or several,” warned Edith. “And William? He has the sweat?” she asked as she put a metal trivet over the coals and balanced a kettle on it.
“Yes, but he has not died of it,” said Cess. “If these tunnels go to the cellars, can we get him?” she asked with a bravado that failed to disguise the terror she felt.
“I’m not going near that hellhole again,” muttered Jasper, sniffing suspiciously at the cheese before shoving it all into his mouth at once. Cess looked at him pityingly. He had obviously never known hunger, or he would be chewing each tiny morsel for as long as possible.
&n
bsp; “Do you have any tobacco?” he asked with his mouth full.
Edith shook her head, looking concerned that someone so young would be yearning for the drug. She rummaged in a bulging sack beside her and pulled out a stick, a hand’s length, to which a few silvery leaves still clung. “This is sage. Chew it. It will quell your desire for tobacco.”
Jasper took the twig reluctantly but began chewing it as soon as he had swallowed his cheese.
“Father Garret said William was alive because of his clubfoot,” said Cess. Edith snorted.
“It’s not because of his foot,” she said.
“Oh?” said Jasper acidly. “They are not entirely foolish. They said that if it wasn’t God’s protection, it might be the Devil’s.” The silence that met Jasper’s words was as thick as the darkness. Cess saw Edith’s smile fade, but she looked sad rather than angry. “How is it you had a pentagram in your purse?” he said to Cess. “And what did you mean by saying you ‘saw’ this evil? No simple healer can know that people are coming before they are in sight, or would consider taking on the hellhounds we saw in the cellar. I know what you are. You’re a…a…” he could not say it. The word “witch” would not come from his mouth. “Are you one too?” He stared at Cess.
“You dolt!” she said, anger flaring at this spoiled boy’s rudeness. “Edith’s skills owe nothing to the Devil, and they have saved many lives.”
“Answer me,” he said quietly.
“What does it matter?”
“What does it matter! Are you soft in the head?” he said, jumping down from the shelf, red-faced and furious. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Mildmay,” he said to Edith abruptly, bowing slightly and ignoring Cess, “but if you would be so kind as to give me a drink, I will be on my way.”
“You can’t go, you’ll be caught,” Cess blurted out.
“Do not worry yourself on my account, Maid Perryn.” His exaggerated formality was infuriating. “I can look after myself, especially if you are not with me.”
“You will let them kill the Queen and William and any other innocent person and do nothing?” said Cess, standing to face him. “You’re a selfish wretch!”
“We are a boy, a poultry maid, and an old woman. What exactly do you expect us to do?” he spat back, his face inches from Cess’s.
Jasper was rude and infuriating and she wished she had never met him, but she did not want him to go. They would be even more alone without him. It occurred to her too that he might betray them if he really suspected they were witches. Cess saw Edith reach into a pot beside her and fish out a clay cup of small beer, which she handed to Jasper. He gulped it down.
“I wish you luck,” he said quietly, handing back the cup and moving toward the ladder. “Which way when I reach the top?” Neither woman answered. Jasper looked furious, but Cess could tell he was frightened. She could not blame him. She was too.
“Jasper, a plot to murder the Queen is not a trifling matter,” said Edith grimly. “Whoever is behind it is ruthless, dedicated, expertly organized, and well funded. They have everything to lose if discovered, so they will stop at nothing to make sure they are not. You and Cess know too much. Their first priority will be to find you and to kill you both.”
“I shall ask my mother to send me to a tutor far away,” retorted Jasper.
“You can go to Land’s End, but they will not rest until your tongue is stilled,” said Edith. “If you stay, at least you have a chance to defeat them. If you leave, you are alone.”
Cess felt a stabbing guilt at having drawn Jasper into a situation awful beyond their wildest dreams. He hesitated, foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, then sighed and slumped back mutely beside her. Edith refilled his cup and he took it without thanks and threw the pale liquid into his mouth.
“There is greater chance for you to escape,” said Edith, turning to Cess, “because you will have the protection of our brothers and sisters as we try to find safe passage for you, probably north.” Cess chewed slowly on her apple. If she fled she had more chance of surviving, but she would not leave Edith and Alathea to fight alone. She knew there was only one path she could take. She had to try and stop the killing. Anyway, she had promised William that she would return for him.
“I will stay, Edith,” she said. Edith’s voice rang clearly in her head.
“You are a brave lass. As Alathea has foreseen, you are needed in ways we cannot yet fathom in order to defeat this foe.” Then she spoke aloud, yawning deeply. “I must rest and you should too while you have the chance. Tomorrow we will make plans, when we are fresh after sleep. If you decide to stay, Jasper, you will be very welcome. There are blankets by the tunnel mouth.”
“But what about William? We can’t just leave him with those monsters,” said Cess, sure she would not be able to sleep while William lay in the priory ruins.
“Being caught ourselves won’t help him, and he won’t die of the disease if he hasn’t yet. We must get help and devise a plan that will work. Wake me if anything happens, and respond to no one except Alathea.” Jasper was struggling to hear, staring from one woman to the other as if they each had two heads. Edith, white with exhaustion, settled down on the hard ground beside the hearth with a sigh. Cess fetched a blanket and tucked it around her friend.
“It will soon be night,” said Cess, thrusting another blanket at Jasper. “I hope you will stay till the morning at least.” She crouched to put the lid over the embers and, with her back to Jasper, pulled the miniature of Lady Mortain from its place. It was rubbing a sore patch on her chest. She ripped a corner from a worn blanket in which to wrap the pendant, and put it in her purse. She was no closer to solving the mystery of why it had been put in the coops, but she wished heartily that she’d never taken it, for nothing but trouble had happened since.
Drax Mortain walked his horse silently through the breezy orchards, pushing her into a gallop only once they had reached open fields. It was past midnight. If he avoided the village, he would be unlikely to encounter anyone. The moon was high and gave ample light as he crossed the Parkway, Abbey Meadow,
Broad Calfhay Mead, the Curtles, and finally rejoined the coach road that ran along the base of Saint Michael’s Hill to the west. He soon reached the other side of the mount from the village, at the start of a disused track that wound its way up to the ruined chapel at the top of the hill. It was the only way a horse could reach the summit.
The track was treacherous with deep holes and ruts, and Drax slowed the horse to a walking pace. Soon trees blocked out the moonlight, and rider and horse had to feel their way along. It was disorientating circling their way upward in darkness, and he soon lost any sense of where they were in relation to the village or the summit.
“Whoa, whoa,” said Drax gently to his horse, who was spooked by the intense darkness and the wind in the trees above her. She whinnied in distress as her hooves slipped on the deeply rutted mud. Drax cursed as his cloak caught on branches. “Damn Paget! I told him this was a madcap idea.” Drax pulled up his horse and tethered her to a tree. “Wait here, Bess, wait here.” He stroked her muzzle briefly, then swore again as he began the rest of the long climb on foot. His leather riding boots were too thin-soled to be comfortable, but at least his gloves allowed him to cling onto branches to keep upright over the steepest places. He had argued with his page to choose somewhere within easier reach. Having climbed the mount as a boy, Drax knew how difficult it was. The hill had been abandoned to Nature back then too, but Drax had never worried about the sprites and demons said to inhabit the place. He had rather hoped he would encounter ghosts so that they might tell him about his dead mother and siblings. These days he would rather have avoided the mount with its memories, but Paget had insisted that the place was sacred and would lend power to their work. His page had discovered that an old hag now lived on the hill, but that she kept to herself and would not trouble them.
Sweating and breathless by the time he reached the summit, Drax Mortain found the chapel yet mor
e dilapidated than when he had last seen it. Perched on the roof, which was nothing but rotting beams, was his hawk, Mexica. He whistled and she swooped down to his gloved left hand. Drax brought her up close to his face, and she rubbed her beak against his cheek, nuzzling his ear and nipping it gently. He stroked the length of her back, feeling her spare body under the carapace of feathers. He liked her smell—warm hay, slightly dusty—and the weight of her on his arm. He would not say he felt happy—happiness was for fools—but he felt alive.
Before he reached the battered door of the chapel, it was opened by his page. A pale, thin-boned man, Bartram Paget looked even slighter in his loose livery. He wore hose and boots slightly too expensive for his purse, and had a number of annoying mannerisms, such as talking about anyone of rank as if they were a personal friend, that would have caused Drax to dismiss him had Paget’s skills in sorcery not been so great. Paget was the seventh son of a seventh son whose powers were acknowledged even among the loose circle of London gentlemen and nobles who used sorcery. His rise, however, had been hampered by a lack of breeding. That had changed once Drax Mortain made him page, and Paget had now made social connections that were as useful as his sorcery. Paget had shown his gratitude by placing his skills at his master’s service, and as a result, he shared intimacies with Drax that no man of his station would normally be allowed.
“Paget,” said Drax.
“Your Lordship,” replied his page, his bulging frog eyes observing Drax carefully. He had little physical strength, but he made up for it by being well-informed. He remained bent double in a deep bow as the nobleman swept past and entered the chapel.
“Let us begin without delay,” commanded Drax, aware that he must return to the great house before anyone missed him. He removed his riding cloak and seated himself on a broken column. Paget bowed again, then reached into his doublet and retrieved a small pouch containing ten tiny ivory dice. Moving closer to the light of a small lantern, he squatted carefully, taking care not to dirty his hose, and threw the dice. Squinting to see the dots in the half-light, he arranged the little cubes according to the number they displayed. Drax craned his head to see, and leaned closer. His page flinched and moved, almost imperceptibly, a little further away.
