A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  Joel smirked. ‘Entire religions have been based on weaker, foggier stories. It’s not what you can do, it’s what others believe you can do that gives you power.’

  He spoke those words most earnestly, but I could only shake my head again. Perhaps it was because of my very rational frame of mind, but despite Joel’s explanation I could not understand the full extent of the witches’ influence. Unfortunately, I would very soon become fully aware.

  We were silent for a moment, while I processed Joel’s long story. He used that time to rummage through his leather bag. He produced a half-burned cigar and lit it up.

  ‘They took Adolphus with them, didn’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Joel frowned, then muttered: ‘This might still work.’

  Then he turned back to the bag and pulled out a large bottle, its stopper sealed with wax. I heard the clink of glass; the bag was packed with dark articles.

  ‘Did you take all that from the witches’ warehouse?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Joel began to splatter the tree’s leafless branches with the oily contents of the bottle. Just as I noticed the acrid stench of that slimy substance I’d seen before, Joel ignited a match and threw it into the fuel. The tree caught fire at a preternatural speed, and the flames sent green and golden glimmers all across the plains.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked in alarm, expecting to see a hundred green torches flocking in our direction at any moment.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, son. Not yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, don’t worry? Is this not one of those beacons the witches run to?’

  ‘You are learning swiftly. Yes, but I know how to trick them now. Did you not see me lure that bloody pair of witches to the top of Winfold Fell?’ he smirked. ‘The stupid fools were expecting to find one of their own, begging for help. I knew they’d be taking that road, close to one of their beacons, so I settled myself there, ousted the mute hag who watches over that pyre and then lay in wait for them. What a pleasure it was to see their flabbergasted faces when I appeared!’ He looked into the dancing flames, basking in the cruel memory.

  I remembered Oakley’s bloodstained apron, the red spills around that lonely tree stump.

  ‘Did you enjoy killing Miss Oakley?’ I could not help asking. ‘And what have you done with those children?’

  Joel arched an eyebrow, an eerie smile playing on his lips. ‘Are you worried about them, boy? It does you credit. You are right, I want the blasted witches to come, but we will not be here when they arrive.’ Again he plunged his hand into the bag, and this time produced another two guns, which he waved at me before pushing them down into his belt. ‘I will trust you with one of these when the time comes. Right now I cannot; you are too prudish with the law.’

  ‘What do you mean, when the time comes?’

  ‘I brought you because I might need an extra pair of hands,’ he said, as he tugged the reins of his horse, guiding the animal to a nearby tree and making sure that a mass of bushy wilderness kept his mount concealed. We would never see that horse again.

  ‘An extra pair of hands!’ I protested. ‘I will not assist you in any –’

  ‘Boy, you are not in a position to dictate what you will or will not do,’ he said, as he counted the bullets left in his gun and passed the straps of the leather bag around his shoulder. ‘Now follow me; it will not be a long walk.’

  ‘Walk where?’ It was foolish to even ask that question, as I already knew how Joel would respond.

  ‘We’re going into the witches’ den.’

  37

  We followed a twisted path, which was no more than a track trodden by sheep and cows. The night was eerily silent, yet my ears constantly expected the squawking of a crow or the meowing of a black cat.

  ‘Since I might die because of this,’ I whispered, ‘I must ask you this question.’ Joel said nothing, which was the best invitation I’d ever received from him. ‘Inspector McGray dragged me here because of his sister, because a nurse claimed she heard her talking – to you.’ Joel kept on walking, not even turning his head. I had to spell the question out. ‘Did Miss McGray really speak to you?’

  Joel snorted. ‘Oh, not you as well!’

  ‘Miss McGray has not spoken in years.’

  ‘Indeed, she had not.’

  ‘Oh! So she did talk to you!’

  ‘That’s none of your business, boy.’

  ‘It bloody well is now! I would be sleeping in a soft, warm bed, without my entire body being covered in bruises and scratches and burns, had that little brat not decided to suddenly open her bloody –’

  Joel seized my jaw and covered my mouth, his leather glove squeezing my face like a clamp.

  ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘It is not far now.’

  He turned on his heels and within minutes we reached a dense stand of oaks and birches, growing around a low stone wall. We were at the very edge of Pendle Hill, its snowy slopes ascending steeply but a few hundred yards away. Between us and the peak there was a small valley, flanked by very tall trees, and in one corner, nestled snugly among the trees, stood the gloomy mass of Cobden Hall.

  There was light coming from its many windows, and I could see that it was a very odd building, its L-shaped layout a rather incongruous mixture of architectural styles.

  The shorter wing had arresting windows with pointed arches, the granite carved into the intricate shapes of an ancient cathedral. The longer, larger wing looked a few centuries newer, its tall chimneys and decorated gables undeniably Tudor.

  There were two carriages parked by the entrance. One of them was Redfern’s, newly arrived. The other, however, was larger and well polished, so that it reflected even the faint glimmer from the windows. It had been pulled by four magnificent horses, their coats as white and pristine as the snow around them.

  I was going to ask to whom those could belong, but Joel raised a hand, bidding silence. Then I saw the bright, yellow eyes of a cat. Its black fur was visible only against the snowy ground.

  The little animal walked past us, and Joel would not move until it was lost in the shadows. Crouching, he walked along behind the wall, until we found a small, round structure made of eroded stone. It reminded me of the abandoned kiln that the witch Nettle called home, but it had no apparent entrance, or flue. It rather looked like a solid mass of rock with no purpose.

  Joel took off a glove and dusted the snow away, feeling the stone underneath with his fingertips. At a certain point he stopped, scraped off frozen moss and then felt the stone again.

  ‘This is it,’ he mumbled, touching a large, round rock, as big as a beer barrel.

  I realized it was a large lump of pumice, porous and light enough to be lifted by a single man. It reminded me of the crumbly debris around Lord Ambrose’s desecrated tomb. Joel pushed it aside, and I saw the deep blackness of a wide well. Joel produced a little taper, which, when ignited, glowed with a small yet persistent blue flame.

  ‘If they see this,’ he whispered, ‘they may think it’s carried by one of them, for a little while, at least.’

  In that cerulean light I saw a neat set of stone steps, descending steeply into impenetrable darkness.

  ‘Follow me, boy,’ Joel said, going down the first few steps but holding the gun firmly. ‘Do not try anything funny, please. I honestly don’t want to have to shoot you.’

  I followed him down, into the damp, fetid air of what turned out to be a narrow tunnel. I had expected it to be a dank little hole, but those underground walls were lined with granite slabs, their polished surfaces reflecting the unsteady glow of Joel’s candle. The stones rose in a soft curve to a pointed-arch ceiling.

  ‘They used this tunnel to bring in priests to celebrate Mass,’ Joel told me, and then the gracefulness of the passage made sense: one would not expect the reverent Catholics to make their priests slither through a grubby mud tunnel. ‘This was built just as they expanded the original wing,’ he added. ‘These hidey-holes are always easier to i
nsert into a building during its inception. The Oakleys knew about it, but never told the other witches of its existence.’

  ‘How come you know about it?’

  There was a chilling draught, which made me shiver along with Joel’s answer.

  ‘I had it from that Oakley girl. She used to live here until my mother took the property off her family – the information I managed to squeeze out of her …’

  I thought again of the torn apron, and a dozen ghastly images of Joel torturing the young nurse rushed into my head. I forced myself to push them aside. ‘Do you really believe the witches have not found this tunnel yet?’

  ‘I do not know, boy, but this was designed to fool the best Crown searchers during the Reformation. I would not expect someone to stumble across it … unless they’re consciously looking for it.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ I murmured, ‘or our visit here will be quite brief.’

  We continued along the passage, which ran in a very straight line. Joel’s taper illuminated the few yards ahead of us, and beyond the light the tunnel disappeared into thick shadows. I thought of a wolf’s throat, waiting patiently for us to tread well inside, and then its jaws closing upon us when it was too late to turn back.

  That moment came sooner than I expected, and I saw the abrupt end of the tunnel: a spiral stair, its steps as regular and smooth as those at the entrance, ascending through a narrow opening. I was feeling increasingly apprehensive: I felt we must be underneath the very core of the manor, and I had no gun in my hands, or any means to defend myself.

  Joel went up very slowly, each step a calculated, careful movement. I hesitated, but then the blue light shining on the granite stone became weaker, fading as he took the taper away. I nearly gasped, imagining myself trapped alone in that place and in utter darkness, and so I rushed forwards.

  I caught the flame’s last glimmer, but for a terrifying second I found myself blinded. I had to grope about, my hands anxiously feeling the cold walls around me until finally they opened up into a damp chamber.

  Joel was standing there, looking upwards and admiring the hollow in the dim light.

  The place must have been two or three yards long, and just as wide, but it was its vaulted ceiling that amazed me: it was a mosaic of saints, angels and Virgin Marys, carved in all types of stone. I saw marble, sandstone, granite of all shades. The pieces, mostly busts and faces, had been cut out into shapes that fit snugly together, like an ancient jigsaw, leaving no empty spaces.

  Even though the chamber was empty, it was evident we were in a small chapel, and I felt a tingle all over my skin. I have never been of a spiritual disposition, but even I could not fail to be moved. It was as if that place were still crammed with the souls of all those dead priests and their secret congregation. I pictured them risking everything to save their relics, even if they had to cut off the heads and forget the rest, and then lovingly carving and fitting them together in that safe haven. I could imagine the clandestine Masses, that little chapel ablaze with candles and a flock as jam-packed as the saints who looked at them from above.

  ‘This was an old fireplace,’ Joel said after a moment. ‘The centre of the building must be much older than Tudor or Elizabethan. This would have been one of those big open hearths, built to heat the entire building in the Middle Ages. In Tudor times those went out of fashion, so it would not have been at all suspect to cover it up when this wing was redesigned. Clever people.’

  I was surprised by how learned Joel turned out to be. The man was incredibly intelligent, but that only made his actions more upsetting.

  Joel walked around the chapel, holding the light up close to the walls and feeling the bricks with his fingertips.

  ‘There has to be a way in,’ he whispered, but so softly I had to guess half his words.

  He prodded a section where the stones seemed particularly eroded, and then blew the candle out.

  Not a single thing could be seen. I swallowed, if only to remind myself that there was something else in the world other than that blackness, and then I heard a very gentle rubbing.

  A thin, dim line of light appeared before my eyes, as Joel opened a door I had not even seen. I thought it would be an exit, but instead that door led to a sort of empty wardrobe built into the wall.

  The golden light came from the back wall of that cavity, through two horizontal cracks, just a fraction of an inch wide and expertly blended into the pattern of bricks: spyholes that looked into the manor.

  The chapel was connected to the main building through that little passage, less than two feet deep. Perhaps it had also served as a watchman’s post, or a ‘fake chamber’ – if someone discovered the spyholes and made their way in, they would only see the first small section and think that was the actual hideout, while the main chapel remained hidden behind it.

  I saw Joel’s black outline, his long fingers bidding me to come and have a look. I did not want to stand so close to him but my curiosity was greater than my fear. We squeezed together in that dusty cleft, pressing our faces against the surprisingly warm stone, peeping through the slits.

  The smell of burning wood hit my nose, and together with the amber glow told me we were standing right behind the wall of another, albeit smaller fireplace.

  The one that warmed the study of Britain’s most feared witch.

  38

  It was an ideal spying hole: the fire lit our view, and it also kept people away; not even scullions like to spend too long cleaning the ashen depths of a hearth.

  Squinting, for my pupils were wider than the slit, I saw a room that could at once have been a library, a veterinarian’s operating room, a chemist’s lab and a botanist’s greenhouse.

  The fireplace and a dozen candles lit shelves packed with enormous books; pots with mushrooms, cacti and other fleshy plants; cages for rats, ferrets and crows; vases containing slithering snakes, frogs and spiders. Along with the smell of burning wood came the aromas of countless different herbs, minerals … and also the ghastly tang of fresh blood.

  I heard a slow, yet constant drip, and a repugnant splatter, as my eyes moved towards a large work table. A chilling sight it was, covered with a disarray of herbs and flasks, as well as sharp instruments and sopping red rags.

  A giant shadow was projected over all the artefacts, far larger than the body it mimicked: that of a very old woman, barely five feet tall, with a wide waist and short, stumpy arms, which moved spasmodically over the table. I could not quite see what she was dissecting, but her wrinkled hands were soaked in dark, slimy blood.

  A black cat jumped on to the table, gingerly approaching the crone’s hands, which offered it a revolting piece of whitish meat.

  I forced myself to look up, to that ancient face. She had leathery skin, gnarled as the bark of a tree and stretched over sharp bones. Her eyes were mere slits surrounded by folds of skin, sunken in deep sockets, making her face look like a living skull.

  If someone had told me that the Devil was a woman, I would have definitely believed it.

  For an instant I thought she had wings, but it was the shadows playing a macabre trick: perched on her left shoulder there was an enormous, hairy bat. Its coriaceous black wings were tipped with long, sharp claws that clung to the hag’s clothes. With a coat of golden fur around its neck, and large, glassy eyes, it looked more like a fox with wings. It was the largest bat I’d ever seen, and my memory went back to my childhood years, leafing through my grandfather’s zoology books.

  ‘Mrs Marigold?’

  It was the deep, deferential voice of one of her muscled servants, standing by the door.

  The witch lifted her face. Nothing could be seen of her eyes, and only a tiny glimmer revealed she had any.

  ‘You got this letter,’ the man said, handing her a fine envelope. ‘And that lord is here … Cecil or what’s his name.’

  I had to cover my mouth to repress a gasp.

  Could he actually mean Robert Cecil – Lord Salisbury? If so, that witch was about
to receive our prime minister!

  She wiped her hands with a greasy cloth, and spoke with a rasping, commanding voice: ‘Brought the lady?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Damn, I told him not to! Bring him in. Only him.’

  As the man left she carefully tore the envelope open; however, she ignored the letter, which she tossed aside, and instead focused on the wrapping. She flattened it and passed the paper over a candle flame. As she did so, brown letters seemed to appear as if by magic.

  How many means of communication did they have? Cats, ravens, beacons, secret vinegar writing …

  Marigold covered the work table with a black cloth, rinsed her hands in a small basin and then sat on an old, very ornate oak chair.

  The guard returned, and I strained to see whoever entered the room. Having recently met the prime minister in person, I knew what to expect.

  Thankfully, it was not him.

  A much younger man, thin and with a feeble frame, came in. His very fine suit seemed completely out of place, as did the top hat he clasped nervously.

  He looked around the room and gulped, but was not nearly as shocked as I had been. I could tell he’d been there before.

  ‘Come,’ Marigold said, her blotchy hand beckoning the man closer. ‘Quickly, William. I can’t have you here for very long.’

  He obeyed, as sheepishly as a young boy. As he walked right past the fireplace I recognized the familiar brow, its lines so soft it did not project any shadows around those scared eyes. My mind flew back to my brother and father discussing politics, and I remembered that name. The man before us was indeed a Cecil, but not the most prominent one. We were looking at the prime minister’s second son, a lord in his own right, yet Marigold had addressed him by his given name, as contemptuously as if he were a homeless drunk.

  His trembling mouth tried to speak, but Marigold jumped in first, startling him.

  ‘I told you not to bring your woman.’

  Lord William Cecil barely managed to reply. ‘She … she insisted.’