by Lucy Jago
“Drunken sot,” Drax said aloud. He walked back into the main house, noticing the spare key hanging from some twine on a hook beside the door that would enable him to let himself out. He walked slowly through the hall, where Joliffe’s bread trencher lay on the ancient table with a jug and tankard beside it. The chamber beyond had a battered oak table without a carpet covering, a three-legged chair by the fire, a couple of floor cushions, and a chest. Drax poked around but found nothing of interest. He looked carefully into the fireplace in case anyone was hiding in the nook. The ashes here were also cold, and the rush matting particularly dirty and foul-smelling. He had a distinct sense of not being alone, even though the room appeared empty.
Drax walked slowly back into the hall and climbed the narrow staircase, which creaked loudly at each step. Upstairs were three chambers, only one with a bed, in which lay Joliffe. Drax could tell his sleep was genuine. He checked the other two rooms carefully, but one was empty and largely devoid even of furniture, and the other was a storeroom smelling strongly of apples and the previous year’s bean crop.
On the way downstairs the candle sputtered out, the wick burned through. He banged into the table and knocked over a tankard as he walked back into the far chamber. Something about this room bothered him. He stood before the fireplace, listening. He heard Joliffe stir in his bed, rise, and cross the floor above, heard the farmer creeping down the stairs and picking up a stool with which to arm himself. It was not he but Joliffe who jumped when he entered the chamber. Joliffe swore mightily at the nobleman. “As foul-mouthed as ever, I see,” said Drax “What in hell are you doing breaking into my house?” said Joliffe, red-faced and furious.
“How do you know it was I who broke in?” asked Drax.
“Because you are standing in my chamber! Get out!”
“I would not have dreamed of entering had I not suspected that three runaways are sheltering here.”
“Runaways? Rot!” shouted Joliffe. “Intimidation, I call it!” And before Drax could draw his rapier, he felt the farmer’s hefty fist slam into his cheek, knocking him sideways so that he fell heavily onto the table. For a moment his vision went black and he remained still.
“If you don’t go, by God, I will kill you,” snarled Joliffe.
Drax rose suddenly, his rapier at Joliffe’s throat. “Unless I kill you first.”
The two men stared at each other with pure loathing.
“If I had not to ride to London, I would take your house apart brick by crumbling brick,” spat Drax, lowering his weapon and sweeping out without a backward glance.
C H A P T E R 21
Cess wept silently as she held Edith’s body in her arms. The dark priest hole had become a coffin, as she had foreseen. She wished it was her own and not her friend’s.
Heavy footsteps overhead made them hold their breath, but it was Joliffe’s face looking down at her when the planks were lifted. He looked gravely at Cess’s tear-streaked face above Edith’s still form. Without speaking he reached down and helped Jasper and William out of the confined space, then got into the priest hole and knelt beside Cess.
“Drax’ll be back before long,” he said, softly. Cess nodded mutely, blinded by tears too copious to blink away. Joliffe gently took Edith’s body from Cess’s arms and lifted her to the floor of the chamber. He helped Cess out, closed the priest hole, and replaced the mats.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“A herb mixture that Edith made to put off the dogs,” replied Cess, trying to get control over herself.
“Drax noticed it, I’m sure. Let’s hope he doesn’t work out what it is or he’ll be back here immediately.” He stared down at the once vibrant woman.
“She tried to tell me about my father,” Cess whispered, her throat thick with tears. Joliffe stiffened and did not look at Cess.
“What did she say?” Had Cess been less upset she would have heard the apprehension in his voice.
“She died before she could,” said Cess. Joliffe grunted slightly but said nothing more as he bent to lift Edith’s body. He led the sorry group outside, where he placed Edith’s body on a handcart he had wheeled out of the barn and covered it with a heavy woolen blanket. He looked at Cess, who stood motionless, stunned.
“Lass,” he said gently, “only you know the way we must go.”
“What is happening? Nathaniel! Nathaniel!”
The steward stumbled into Sir Edward’s bedchamber, disheveled from sleep and dressed only in his nightshirt.
“Drax and his mounted guard are riding out, my lord.”
“I can hear that myself, but it’s not yet dawn. Has he not a care that he wakes the entire household?” grumbled Sir Edward. Sir Nathaniel shrugged, but both men looked worried rather than annoyed.
“Something is up, Nathaniel.”
“Yes, sir. My man has been shadowing Drax as you requested. He went to the chapel on Saint Michael’s Hill during the night and is now riding for London.”
“London? The chapel? What in the Devil’s name is going on?! Where’s his page?” asked Sir Edward, his face growing redder as his temper flared.
“Not in his chamber. No one saw him leave.”
“Come with me.”
Sir Edward grabbed Sir Nathaniel’s candle and strode barefoot from his bedroom to the great chamber. He went straight to the fireplace. The hair across the secret panel had been disturbed. He knew what to expect when he opened it.
“He has the scroll,” said Sir Edward quietly, seeing the empty cubbyhole. He went quickly to his writing desk. As the light from the candle fell on the beautiful object, he saw that it was smashed and splintered, the vellum cipher gone.
“My God,” breathed Sir Nathaniel, horrified. “Surely Drax would not…”
“Until we ask him we cannot know,” Sir Edward said in a calm, steel-edged voice. “We must see how many of our informants’ addresses we can remember, for there is no copy of that scroll, and now their lives are in jeopardy. Have the fastest rider made ready.”
The sun was high; it was after midday, and Drax and his men had been riding since dawn. He was tired. For the last few hours a voice had been nagging at him, telling him to go back, something was wrong. He had been trying to ignore it. His business in London was vital to his plans, but still the voice needled him with questions. What drug or bewitchment had felled his men? How had the girl evaded all his efforts to find her? Why had the dogs not sniffed her out? Drax had been so angry when he had discovered the chaos in the chapel, it had taken all his willpower not to run the unconscious Paget through.
Now, however, it was the seemingly trivial details that were bothering him. Joliffe’s house was not clean, but why were the rushes in his chamber dirtier than elsewhere, and what was the strange smell in there? Was this girl, as Paget believed, his most invincible foe? He had noticed something about her from the moment he first saw her. He felt drawn to her, but it was not sexual desire. It was puzzling.
The beat of hooves was hypnotic against the buzzing and whirring of his brain. He tried to shut out his thoughts and concentrate on the rhythm of the galloping animal beneath him. After some time, answers came fluttering down to him like leaves. If he tried to catch them too eagerly they escaped, but by half shutting his mind, they fell into place. He pulled his horse up sharply and swore under his breath. His men stopped too and looked at him questioningly.
Drax knew that the success or failure of his plans depended on the decision that he was to make in the next few moments. Should he continue to London to destroy his father’s spy network and seal his marriage, or return to deal with the poultry girl? He sat still in the saddle for a long while, allowing the breeze to cool his overheated brain. Eventually he took a deep breath and held it for so long that his skull felt fit to burst with shooting stars. Only once he was sure of his decision did he breathe again.
He took a leather scroll case from his saddlebag and handed it to his chief guard. “Carry on without me. You know where to de
liver this. Take six men.”
The guard pointed to the men who were to accompany him, and they rode away at a gallop.
“We return,” said Drax to the remaining four guards. They nodded without hesitation.
Stroking Bess’s neck, he turned her westward. They were both weary, but would have to ride fast to reach Montacute by nightfall.
When he arrived he would send Paget and a handful of his men to Joliffe’s farm. He had finally understood why the smell and dirty rushes in the chamber had been bothering him when the stench and filth in the kitchen and buttery had not. The scent in the chamber was some sort of herbal mix designed to confuse hunting dogs. The girl had been right under his nose all the time. Still, with a little persuasion from Paget and his tools, Joliffe would tell them where she was hiding. The farmer’s death, and those of the girl and her companions, would have to look like accidents; he did not want the Queen’s visit delayed. He had received news that the sweetmeats that would bring about the demise of the Queen and her heir were ready. Her first outriders would arrive at Montacute at the end of the week. Nothing must be allowed to disrupt plans that had been in the making for a decade.
Cess woke in the tunnel hideout. She did not move but lay still, watching Alathea as she covered Edith’s body with flowers and moss. She was not surprised that Alathea had come. The pain that had torn her body as Edith died could surely be felt by the coven leader too. Cess’s stomach lurched painfully at the thought that her dear friend and protector was dead.
Cess did not move for a while. She thought about Edith, reliving the moment that she had died in her arms. Her sacrifice must not be wasted. Although tired and bruised, Cess felt a fire inside. She must make Edith’s death mean something.
Alathea came over and kissed her. There was no need for words between them about Edith’s passing, but other matters were urgent.
“The storm is about to break over our heads, and we must be ready. I have called the coven to us,” said Alathea.
“Drax said to Joliffe that he was going to London today. But I am convinced that the danger looms close and we will have to face him very soon.” Cess tried to sound strong as she spoke, but Edith’s death had shaken her and made her realize how fragile life was.
She slowly raised herself on her pallet and looked about.
Jasper was beside the small fire, and William was sitting a little way away, staring at Jasper’s sleeping form.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, moving to sit beside him. He shrugged. She could tell he was angry.
“We came for you as soon as we could, William. We did everything possible.”
William did not reply. He sat winding the ribbon he had given Cess around and around his fingers. The beautiful colors had become gray with dirt, so obsessively was he twisting it.
“What is it, William? What is the matter?”
Slowly he turned his hostile gaze upon her. “Why did we come here and not to our homes?” he asked.
“We are not safe in the village. The man who seeks to kill us is at Montacute House and can find us easily in the village.”
“Who is that woman?” he asked in a hoarse monotone.
“A friend of Edith’s who has come to mourn her.”
“She was mumbling over me. I stopped her,” said William, looking suspicious.
“She sought only to help you, to heal you.”
“She is a witch,” he spat, beginning to rock his body, his eyes so wide he looked almost possessed. Cess noticed that he was shivering, and she pulled a blanket from the pile and placed it tenderly round his shoulders. William ignored the gesture completely.
“Who is that?” he asked in a harsh voice that she barely recognized, jerking his head toward Jasper.
“Jasper. He comes from Yeovil and has been helping us.”
“Why?”
“He did not have much choice.” Cess smiled. William did not smile back but glared without blinking. “He is helping us defeat Drax and stop the awful things that are happening in the priory cellars.”
“Do you have feelings for him?”
Cess was taken aback by the directness of William’s enquiry, and was about to snort and tell him not to be silly, when she realized she could not. With a strong and unexpected surge of warmth in her body, she recognized that she did feel something for Jasper that she had not felt for any other boy, even William. She looked over at him, sleeping beside Edith’s body, and her chest tightened. When she looked back at William, his eyes were brimming with tears.
“When I was down there, when I thought my life was being taken from me, I came to love life so much that even my clubfoot was beautiful to me. It also became clear that in life only love matters. Other things, like having glass in the windows or a sheet on the bed, being a physician or a blacksmith, being plain or handsome, are nothing. I tried to tell you on your birthday that I loved you.”
Cess, uncomfortable with this proclamation, bowed her head and fiddled with her hands. William carried on, ignoring the embarrassment he was causing.
“When I saw the ribbon, I nearly gave up. I know you did it so I would remember that you had been there, but I would never have parted with something you gave me; I would have found some other way. I would not have left you. I would have died with you. It made me realize something had changed. When I saw you with that boy, the pain was as bad as anything the monks did.” William stopped, the tears constricting his throat. Cess tried to hold his hand, but he snatched it away.
“William,” said Cess gently, “we risked everything, even Jasper, who had never even met you. Edith has died to save you. Does all that mean nothing?”
William showed not a flicker of appreciation but turned and lay down as if to sleep. Cess wondered at his understanding of her feelings for Jasper before she was aware of them herself and considered what she could do to ease his disappointment. A bang on the hatch above their heads made her jump. Jasper, who had been deeply asleep, leaped to his feet and stared wildly around him, a hand to his white dagger. Alathea alone looked calm.
“They are coming,” she said simply, and climbed the ladder to open the hatch. A man and a woman climbed down into the cramped space and knelt for a long time beside Edith before sitting on the floor. Alathea welcomed them, speaking quietly and offering what little beer and food they had.
“I cannot introduce you formally,” she explained, “for we use witch names that I cannot reveal to the uninitiated. Nine more will arrive, as covens have thirteen members. They will be coming from three or four miles distance, but as it is daylight they must take extra care not to be seen.”
By mid-afternoon, the little hideout was crammed with people. When the last appeared, a quiet goodwife from the village, whom Cess was amazed was a witch, Alathea stood to address them.
They listened silently as she told them all Cess and Jasper had discovered. They shook their heads or mouthed incantations against evil, but none interrupted.
“Dear friends,” Alathea concluded, “there are sufficient number of us gathered that we must act. I am not alone in prophesying the events now unfolding and the involvement of this young woman,” she said, indicating Cess. “The scriers in this and other covens have all seen her these past months, alongside such visions of evil and danger, not just to ourselves but to many others, that we cannot sit idly by. If Drax Mortain’s plan to become King succeeds, a great evil will spread over the entire land and destroy what peace and prosperity we now enjoy.”
Cess sat silently for a while, but the sense of tension was so great, she found it hard to concentrate. A tall figure stood. He pushed back his hood to reveal a long, pale face, weathered by many summers.
“Permission to speak, my queen.”
Alathea nodded.
“What of our oath to harm none? Are we not here to safeguard our covens until such time as we can once again raise our heads and live in peace with non-witches?”
Cess gaped at the man, aghast. It had never occurred to her that th
e coven members might refuse to help. Without them there was no hope of defeating Drax. Trying to control a rising sense of panic, Cess heard another sound, faintly. For a moment she could not identify it. As it got louder and more insistent, she realized it was the sound of galloping hooves riding fast. It was accompanied by an increasing sense of dread. Suddenly she stood.
“I know you have seen me in your scrying and that I am meant to have some power that will help us. I have not yet discovered what this is, I will be honest, but even so, I am willing to risk my life to overcome the evil we have witnessed. If we fail, then the lives of every person, everywhere, will be at risk. With this pestilence at his fingertips, Drax Mortain will be able to control us all through fear and destruction. If we do not act, we will fail in the sacred task performed by witches for thousands of years, that of preserving the dignity and preciousness of all life.”
The witches sat silently for a while, then turned to each to confer.
Cess remained apart. She knew the meaning of the galloping horse. Drax Mortain had finally understood what was crucial to the success of his plans.
“I can feel something, Alathea,” said Cess quietly to the witch queen. “Drax Mortain is coming back. I can sense his approach. Have you felt nothing?”
“No,” said Alathea, “but I believed him to be London-bound so have not thought about him. Do you often dream of him?”
Cess was startled. “No.”
Alathea waited.
“Well, I have disturbed sleep, and sometimes he is in my mind when I wake.…Why?”
“Sometimes people have feelings for those who threaten them—not the feelings you might expect of anger, hatred, and revenge, but more of desire and longing. It is a strange thing, but I have seen it before.”
