Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  It was, in the end, a mere accident that St. Just came out of the confrontation with honors in spite of his careful planning. Although he was not accustomed to the rage of a woman who neither wept nor became hysterical, he was prepared. The brief exchanges of the past had demonstrated that Pamela had a temper.

  Admittedly, however, they had not exhibited her full capabilities. In a deceptively level voice, she described to him his own character and antecedents in terms that would not have flattered the illegitimate idiot son of a drab and a drunken lecher. Well-launched, she then spoke for ten minutes—without, so far as St. Just could tell, taking a breath—on the subject of his present behavior, intelligence, and intentions.

  He had listened in wide-eyed, openmouthed admiration at first. Few men had such a command of vituperative language, let alone women, who, in this mealy-mouthed age, usually pretended total ignorance that a word worse than "bad" existed.

  Shortly, as Pamela branched out into even more personal criticism, his detached attitude became shaken. A sense of injury began to overtake him, because she was hitting sensitive, well-concealed feelings of inadequacy. St. Just's lips drew back in a snarl; his eyes narrowed; and just before he went overboard, he saw the briefest flash of satisfaction under the icy overlay of Pamela's expression. His sense of humor came to his rescue.

  The snarl relaxed into a genuine smile of amusement. The devil! Naturally she had learned of the prohibition against riding in the morning. No doubt she had actually lost her temper then, but Pamela was not a brooder or a grudge carrier. She had had plenty of time to swallow her rage and think. This display was purposeful. St. Just wished he could let her win, but he could not afford to have her running about loose, perhaps fouling his plans.

  "I love you, Pam," he said.

  Like a striking snake, her hand flew out to lash his face.

  "I love you," he repeated.

  "Then show it by having some faith in my judgment."

  "You have none, because you love me too."

  To deny something that was now so obvious would merely make her ridiculous, Pamela knew, yet she was frightened by the calm conviction he held.

  "I shall go mad. St. Just, I shall die of frustration if I am chained here while you and…and George are free. You must allow me to do something to occupy my mind."

  "There is Hetty," he said with an odd quirk to his lips. He would not say anything else, and upon the subject of Pamela's riding out, remained adamant.

  To her astonishment, Pamela found herself thrust back in time to the period before Mrs. Helston had mentioned the pregnancy of the unfortunate maid. Once again she did menus and discussed minor household problems with the housekeeper. She talked of furniture, clothes, and ton parties with Hetty and George. St. Just rode out every day and returned, as he had in the past, abstracted and silent. The only thing that prevented Pamela from wondering whether she had had a brief spell of lunacy was the attitude of the servants. They were frightened, and much of Pamela's time was devoted to soothing them.

  Hetty, on the other hand, seemed to have thrown off her fears, but this helped not one whit. The peace had gone out of Tremaire, and Hetty's good humor only magnified the contrast. Below the smooth-functioning surface of the house, tension rose as if a slack cord was being slowly but inexorably tightened. Sometimes Pamela felt as if the cord was around her neck, and soon…soon it would choke off her breath.

  The days crept by, some sunny, some gray. May melted into June. The new moon swelled to full and began to wane. Often Pamela stood at her window in the night and stared at it, sometimes wishing she could arrest its motion, sometimes wishing it would hurry, hurry, to its moment of extinction, so that they would know the best or the worst at once. Neither halting nor hurrying, the moon pursued her course, night by night growing thinner and more wan, until on the twenty-third of June only the most tenuous silver thread appeared among the scattered stars.

  "Miss Pam."

  Pamela spun away from the window and stared into the dark room with blind eyes. Sarah had entered so softly that she had not heard her. "What is it?"

  "You must dress and come to Maud's cottage."

  Surefooted and certain in the black room, Sarah chose a dark dress and began to help Pamela clothe herself. She seemed to have no doubts of Pamela's compliance, for she offered neither explanation nor apology, and she had judged her mistress's character quite correctly. Whatever she was needed for, it would mean action of some type, and Pamela was trembling with the need to act.

  "There is nothing to fear. Miss Pam," Sarah said softly. "I would not let harm come to you."

  "I am not afraid," Pamela snarled. "Let us go."

  Out of doors, the starshine was sufficient to see a little after the blackness of the house. It seemed to Pamela that a dark figure gestured at Sarah, and then moved away as they came out of the scullery door. Since Sarah nodded and said nothing, Pamela also held her tongue, following unfalteringly to Maud's cottage.

  She had little time to wonder what she would find, but what she saw was so ordinary that disappointment rose in her throat like the prelude to tears. Four old women sat cozily together before a glowing fire. A small kettle steamed on the hob. A large cat purred on the hearth rug. Maud's glance, opaque and inscrutable, turned to her.

  "Did you ever touch the maid who was with child?"

  It was a most peculiar question, but as usual when Maud questioned her, Pamela felt no desire to question in return. She considered, then said, "Yes, I believe I did, once. I took her hand."

  One of the old crones grunted, "Better than nothing."

  "You remember her face? How she looked?" Maud asked.

  "Yes, of course," Pamela replied.

  "Do you like animals?"

  "Yes."

  "Go away, Sarah," Maud said. "I will send for you when I want you." The maid hesitated uneasily, and Maud's lips parted in what she might have thought was a smile. "Your nursling's leman will come back safe…tonight."

  "And that is as much as I can promise for any of us," the old woman muttered as the door closed behind Sarah.

  She levered herself up from her chair and brought a stool forward so that it faced the fire. Two of the witches sat quietly on one side; Maud's empty chair and the third witch were on the other.

  'Take the cat in your lap and look into the fire," Maud said to Pamela.

  It was a very large cat, not black, but handsomely tiger-striped, and it purred loudly, kneading the hearth-rug now with long, efficient-looking claws. Pamela felt somewhat cautious about disturbing it. Cats did not like to be handled by strangers. She put out her hand to be sniffed, and the animal raised its handsome head and stared at her, its pupils slowly contracting to slits, leaving its eyes the same glowing green as St. Just's.

  The purring had stopped, but the cat obligingly arched its neck to touch Pamela's extended fingers with its nose. Then it rose to a sitting position, blinked sleepily, and yawned. Hoping the creature was as docile as it appeared, Pamela lifted it, sat down, and set it on her lap.

  Under her fingers, the whipcord muscles tensed. She stroked the top of the head, between the ears, ran her finger down along the jawline. The cat shifted slightly, then deliberately curled up, fitting its body to the curve of her thighs. It looked up again for a moment, then dropped its head. Ridiculously, Pamela thought that it was fortunate she was so large; the cat would never have fit in a smaller woman's lap.

  "So," Maud said softly. "So. Now do you stroke him, steadily. A stroke and a breath, a stroke and a breath."

  The smooth fur was silky and soothing. A minute passed in silence; another minute. The cat began to purr in a regular, unvarying cadence. Pamela had not been sleeping well, and the dancing flames hurt her tired eyes. She closed them, strangely quiescent, her world narrowing to the ruddy light beyond her lids, the purring of the cat, and the silky caress of the fur against her fingers. Her empty hand was lifted, and a goblet, faintly warm, was pressed into it. Pamela opened vague eyes.
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br />   "Drink," Maud purred, softer than the cat, her voice blending with that sound. "You are tired. You will be refreshed. Drink."

  The contents of the goblet smelled very pleasant, a mixture of aromatic spices, and Pamela drank as she was bid. Her left hand never faltered in its regular stroke, and the cat purred, purred. Her eyes closed again. Then, soundless, insistent, a question came to her mind.

  ''Where?" Was she asking herself that? Was someone asking it of her? "Where?"

  Annoyed, Pamela forced open her heavy lids. The room seemed to have become very dark, the flickering firelight drew her eyes. The flames danced, dark areas changing with bright, bright with dark, until two eyes looked out of the fire at her. They were blank, guileless eyes in a pretty, empty face—the pregnant maid.

  Where was she? The face melted, and Pamela saw a house with a peaked roof on a steep street Oh, yes, she must be in the town. Pamela remembered she had decided that a long time ago. Then she wondered if the girl had had her child. Well, she must have, the slow thoughts came.

  Poor little thing, Pamela thought, stroking the cat, listening to the numbing purr, an idiot mother and a vicious father. Poor little life. What would become of it? The flames darkened and swirled. Eyes again looked out, dark and angry in a pale face marked with a single slash of red flame along one cheek.

  "Oh!"

  The soft cry, which came from her own throat, the instinctive recoil that rocked the stool backward, brought Pamela to reality with a snap. The cat leaped from her lap and stalked off into the shadows. Pamela shook her hand to free it of the loose fur that clung to her fingers. Four pairs of eyes, old and rheumy, but keen nonetheless, were fixed upon her.

  "You have not rested quiet, lady," Maud said in her ordinary flat voice. "What did you dream?"

  "I don't think I was asleep."

  "No?"

  "I did have some odd thoughts, but… Did you give me some potion?"

  There were herbs in the cup to make the inner eye see clearer than the outer one. What did you see…with your eyes closed…lady?"

  Pamela felt, not frightened, for it was plain that these women meant her no harm, but awed. Somehow, without making a sound, the witches had asked her a question. But had she found the answer to it?

  "I will tell you what I saw," she said, "if you will tell me what it means."

  There was a moment's silence. Although the witches' eyes never moved from her face, Pamela felt they had somehow consulted each other.

  "If you wish to know, we will tell you," Maud replied.

  "I saw the face of the maid who had been taken away. Then I saw a house on a steep street—a street in the town of St. Just, I am sure."

  "That picture was clear?"

  "Yes, very. If I saw that house again, I would know it."

  Maud pursed her lips. "Go on. Until I hear the end, I cannot tell what the beginning means. You saw more?"

  "Very little. I began to think of the child, and I felt sure it was born, but I did not see it. Then I wondered what would happen to the poor creature and…and I saw another face I knew."

  "Whose?"

  "I am not absolutely certain, but I think it was Potten's wife. I marked her with my riding crop last month for…for something." Maud glanced at Pamela quickly and almost smiled, but did not interrupt. "The mark was there," Pamela finished.

  A sound of indrawn breath seemed to come simultaneously from the other three witches. "She is strong, Maud. She is very strong," one muttered.

  "Strong enough to block the lady's seeing," Maud said calmly. "But the lady is not one of us and had no touch with what she sought." No one spoke, but Maud continued, as if answering an argument, "It is better this way. It is time for a reckoning and a cleansing."

  "You said you would tell me what this meant," Pamela said firmly.

  Maud shrugged. "I took the maid from your house for safekeeping. Sarah has the keys. And I kept her safe until the child was born. Late—it was born very late, as if something held it back until the time was ripe."

  Pamela drew a breath to speak, but Maud shook her head and Pam was silent.

  "That was not here," Maud went on. "It does not matter where it was. The labor was long; the girl was weak; I was tired, and there was much to do. We had her safe, where none could come to her, but I was too sure—this once. Perhaps I am growing old at last. I forgot she had been called before, and she is the kind that answers a calling. She went. Of herself she went, taking the child with her."

  "You had her, and you let St. Just search and search?"

  "It did him no harm, and showed his enemies that he did not know where she was."

  "Oh." Pamela had never thought of that aspect of the searching. In a way, it had been a device to increase St. Just's safety. Pamela repressed a flicker of doubt that the earl had known all along that Maud had the maid and had only pretended to search.

  "Now we know where she is," Maud continued, "but the clarity of the vision shows that it is of no importance. The babe is not with her, and it is the babe who will be used. When you sought the child, then you were blocked—by another face. So be it. The challenge has been made openly. The coven must hold by its old faith, or take a new one."

  Maud's dull eyes changed in the sudden way they could, glittering bright and hard.

  "May I ask what the old faith is?" Pamela asked with grave respect.

  "God is over all, but under Him there are Powers. They raise the corn from the earth, quicken the seed in a woman's womb, heal the sick. There are Powers that stir the winds in the heavens and the waters on the earth."

  "And blight the corn, and loosen the womb, and waste the life of man and maid," another old voice added.

  "Ay," Maud continued, "there are bright Powers and dark Ones. And you must know them both to use either, but you must worship the Devil to use the dark Powers, because he alone can master them. I do not worship the Devil. More than that you need not know."

  As if the words were a cue, the door opened, and Sarah stood waiting. Pamela rose.

  "Is there anything we can do to save the child?" she asked.

  The old witch's eyes were again dull marbles fixed on nothing. "Do not meddle," she replied.

  It was what Pamela wanted to hear. Although by the time she returned to the house her awe was lessened, because she realized that there were rational reasons outside of witchcraft for what she had "seen," she was content to leave the last-minute rescue of the love child in Maud's hands.

  One did not have to believe in Powers to know that Maud had a real power of her own. Without witchcraft, the strength of her personality was such that she could probably force the coven to obey her. St. Just, who was an outsider, could only raise animosity if he tried to interfere. Pamela could not admit she was more afraid of a deliberate involvement on his part, an involvement concerning Hetty, than she was of any personal danger to him. He had ridden the fields and hills for over a month, he had been abroad in the storm, and no attempt had been made to harm him. She could not acknowledge her doubts, but she could accept the impulse to tell him of her meeting with Maud and see his reaction.

  Propriety warred briefly with impulse and lost. Pamela silently let herself in the door of St. Just's bedchamber, which was opposite her own door. Soft-footed, she groped toward the darker darkness of the bed curtains, stretched a hand to draw them aside.

  "Vy," she gasped in a terrified whisper, "don't! It is I."

  The dully glinting barrel of the dueling pistol dropped. "Pam! What is wrong? My God, I could have killed you."

  Pamela drew a shaken breath, weak with a double relief and a renewed fear. A man did not sleep with a pistol under his hand unless he had something of which to be afraid.

  "I am glad you are so well prepared," she whispered. "Don't you sleep at all?"

  "I sleep very lightly these days," St. Just replied briefly, and reached for the tinderbox beside the bed. When he had lighted the candles, he added, "Now, tell me what is wrong and hand me my dressing gown, love.
"

  Was it better to protest what he had called her or to ignore it? With a sudden renewed sense of grief and loss, Pamela realized it did not matter. Tomorrow night was Midsummer Eve. Within the following week, she would be gone from Tremaire for good.

  "There is no need to get up. I am not sure what I have to tell you means, but you don't have to do anything about it right now."

  She told him then what had happened in Maud's cottage, her confidence fading as she saw his lips tighten. When he gestured impatiently toward his dressing gown a second time, Pamela handed it to him.

  "Do you think Maud would lie?" she asked desperately at last.

  St. Just had been pacing the floor. He stopped with his back to her at the question and squared his massive shoulders. Then he turned.

  "Lie? About the child? No. But not because she cares about the poor creature, nor about you, nor even about me. She cares for nothing besides the coven and her power over it. Do you not see that she used you? How could you go without telling me?"

  "Because Sarah asked me to, and I trust Sarah."

  He made an impatient, rejecting sound. "Sarah is completely under Maud's thumb. How could you expose yourself in this way?"

  "Expose myself to what?" Pamela asked calmly.

  "Any one of those women could have 'looked' for the child as you looked, and far more successfully, because they know how. None of them would, because to meet their antagonist—Potten's wife—would permit her to 'see' them…see, in the sense of knowing and therefore gaining an advantage."

  "St. Just," Pamela protested soothingly, "you must know I did not really see anything." She was not so sure, but he was too sure. "I cannot believe in those things. I have no doubt that Maud gave me some stimulating or dream-inducing potion. I was thinking about the maid and the child—after all, I have thought about little else for a month—so I saw them. I had already decided in my own mind, long ago, that she was hidden in the town. Everything I 'saw' was a natural result of my own anxieties, my own imagination, nothing more."