The Witch (The Witch Trilogy Book 1)

by Cheryl Potter

  He watched open-mouthed as the horse reared, like some rampant figure from a coat-of-arms, seeming to hang there for many moments before finally leaping over the ridge.

  Ned heard the pounding hooves and the snorted breaths; realized with horror that it was hurtling straight at Kate. Knowing that he was too far away to reach her before it did, he opened his mouth to shout a warning – but the sound died in his throat.

  Just when it seemed that Kate could not but be trampled under the mass of heaving horseflesh, she turned her head aside. As though facing a brick wall, the horse swerved violently to her left. In passing, the dark figure slipped from the saddle, leaving the horse to race up the slope alone, almost knocking Ned over in its flight.

  Below him, Kate let the cloak slip off her shoulders. Ned latched on to the stark white of her chemise. He saw her walk towards the stooped figure of the rider; watched as the dark thing sprang at her, knocking her down and enveloping her white in its dark wings.

  The boy inched closer. He heard the creature’s racked, spasmodic moans; saw Kate’s arms entwined around it. Then he clutched his head and ran away.

  Part 3: Aqua

  Discoveries ...

  Kate stopped singing to listen. Above the bleating of the ewes and lambs, the lazy underpinning of wood-pigeons, she had heard a brief rumbling; a sound ominously out of keeping with the bright spring morning. She scanned the hillside and saw nothing but Jack, snorting with the effort of rolling in some wild animal scent.

  The ewe under her shifted, straining at the deformed hoof Kate had trapped between her legs, dragging her back to the task in hand.

  Distant thunder perhaps.

  She pared the twisted hoof shell back to the new growth, smeared it with ointment, then let the ewe hobble back to her calling sisters. Drawn by a huddle around the water-trough, she waded through and was taken aback to find it was dry save for a murky puddle in the drain outlet. She felt underneath for the wooden plug and pulled it out. As the stagnant liquid sluiced through her fingers, something small and firm dropped into her palm. Drawing her hand out she was saddened to find it was the bedraggled body of a wren; tip-tailed even though its eyes were glazed with death. As she closed her wet fingers around the tiny corpse, she heard again the strange rumbling sound.

  Grabbing the bucket from its hook on the side of the trough, she climbed over the hurdles and picked her way down to the stream. There in the flowing water she opened her hand and watched the wren wend its way downstream.

  There was something in the air. Something to do with Ned not filling the troughs. She had looked in on the hayloft before coming out; had thought nothing of his not being there. He was often up and about at first light, seeing to the feed and water. But Ned was too rigid in his habits, too jealous of her good opinion, to let the trough run dry.

  With a sense of foreboding she scooped a bucket full of water and made her way back to the trough. She was replacing the plug when Jack swooped to her side, his hackles raised.

  Out of the sunlight, three horses suddenly leapt through the chaffinch hedge scattering the sheep. After them, a jostle of men and boys noisily pushed their way through the broken hedge. Jack, a quiver of muscle and bared teeth, rushed the first horse but was stunned by the flick of a galloping hoof.

  Clenching her fingers around the knife in her pocket, Kate rose slowly to her feet. She stared at the malevolent faces ranged around her. Samuel Grafton glowered down from the horse she herself had nursed. Bailiff Tom Clarke sat beside him. Kerry the groom was there and the footman who had chased her. There were lads she had seen that day in the courtyard and men she recognized from the village. But of all the faces none bore more malice than Barbara Canard. Glaring down from the saddle of a dappled palfrey she spat, ‘Take the witch! And her dog!’

  Kate knew her time had come – as she had always known it would. As it had come to her mother before her. What she had not known though, was that it would come so soon. Why now, when she was only just discovering so much within herself? Before she had begun to explore her own awakening powers? Now that she had him?

  She watched them muzzle Jack as he lay semi-conscious beneath Grafton’s horse. Saw them truss his floppy legs so that he could not escape. Everyday concerns flooded her mind. Who would tend the sheep, look after kitlin, see that the cauldron she had left on the range did not boil dry? Not one person here, that was certain.

  She met their stares. In that look defied them to lay a finger on her. Not one moved, though several murmured. She lifted the bucket and emptied the clear water into the trough.

  ‘Katharine Gurney, you are to come forthwith to my house, to answer the charges laid against you,’ Grafton commanded.

  Kate turned to meet his gaze. ‘What charges?’ If he replied, she did not hear. For standing shame-faced beside Barbara’s palfrey, she had spotted Ned.

  She was vaguely aware that Grafton had issued an ultimatum. Felt hands reach for her arms. And their violating touch unleashed her fury. In that moment she determined not to play out the part they intended for her. She pulled out the knife and slashed at anyone within arm’s reach. They all leapt back, wary eyes slavishly following the bloodied knife.

  ‘If any man so much as touches me again,’ she raged, ‘so help me God, I’ll run him through!’

  Grafton dismounted and pushed into the inner circle. He said severely, ‘God punishes murder Gurney, He does not abet it.’

  She surveyed the mud-splashed boots, the braided velvet coat and plumed hat. And was struck by the inconsequence of the posturing man within – him and his cowering pack of henchmen.

  ‘Unless the murder be of a witch,’ she said grimly.

  ‘From her very mouth!’ cried Barbara. ‘The witch condemns herself‒’

  ‘Of what am I accused?’ demanded Kate.

  ‘We all heard your curse that day in the courtyard!’ railed the footman. ‘Heard you damn the house of Grafton.’

  ‘Been nothing but witchery ever since!’ shouted another.

  ‘Those poor afflicted children,’ said the footman with a dismal shake of his head.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Marsden. Turning to Kate he said, ‘You are coming to Apescross‒’ Before the words were spoken, Barbara, brandishing her crop, had spurred the palfrey through the huddle of men and boys, knocking her uncle aside. Kate took the first blow on her raised forearms. As the crop came down again she caught it squarely and snatched Barbara from her mount. In a moment of confusion Kate threw herself into the saddle and jerked the reins. The small horse reared in panic, then something clubbed her under the shoulder blades. Gasping for air, she turned to see Tom Clarke arcing a heavy stick at her head.

  She would later remember falling off the horse, the knife being ripped from her fingers, grit-toothed faces laughing as she put up a futile fight against Grafton’s merciless beating; as she howled her defeat.

  She lay, hands and feet tied, staring up from the damp grass at ribbons of moving cloud. And while they argued about the best place to swim her, she watched a bee dance past and envied its lack of pain.

  A post, ripped from the hurdle fencing, had been thrust between her tied hands and feet so that she swung under it like a stuck sow as grunting men lifted the ends on to their shoulders.

  Kate closed her ears to the raucous shouting and sank into her pain. When she reopened her eyes, Ned was staring down at her.

  ‘What did you tell them, Ned?’ she murmured.

  The boy’s eyes shifted uneasily. ‘I-it was the Evil One,’ he blurted. ‘I couldn’t sleep – belly-ache, see. Heard you come out ... thought you were done for.’

  ‘You followed me last night?’ she breathed.

  ‘Leave the lad be, witch!’ spat the footman, thrusting Ned aside.

  The boy tugged his sleeve. ‘Lying with him, she was ... only came up on Mr Marsden’s say-so ... should never have taken me from the inn.’

  ‘Hush Ned,’ Kate groaned.

  Thrusting himself between her and the
footman the boy snarled. ‘Witch! Whoring witch!’ Others took up the taunt, pressing their bodies closer. Unseen fingers poked and pinched her bruised flesh – began to tear at her clothes.

  ‘Come away!’ bawled Grafton.

  ‘Aye!’ shouted the footman. ‘Let the water decide.’

  ‘She’ll float, sure as day,’ said William Kerry.

  ‘And you should know,’ Barbara added slyly. ‘Eh, Will?’

  Grafton shot his niece an angry scowl, then driving Prince Rupert through the angry men, cleared a way through to the captive. ‘We’ve idled long enough,’ he barked. ‘You, Kerry, take one end, and you,’ he stabbed at a burly villager with his whip, ‘you take over the other. We’re taking this woman straight to Apescross, do you hear?’ Over a storm of protest he shouted, ‘To Apescross, I say. Didmerton millpond is out of our way.’

  ‘True sir,’ yelled the footman. ‘But I have a lad here says he knows of a place close by.’

  Minutes later, Ned had guided them through the wood to the secluded pool where, only weeks before, he and Kate had scrambled across the ice to rescue a stray ewe. There they unhooked and propped her against the mossy bark of a fallen tree.

  Grafton cast a critical eye over the gently rippling water. He shook his head dubiously, turned to Tom Clarke and suggested the pool was too shallow for their purposes. The footman craved Grafton’s pardon; insisted he could not help but hear what had been said, and by his master’s leave would gladly test the depth himself.

  Clarke dismounted and attempted to take charge of the scramble of gibing lads who, urged on by Miss Barbara, had already untied Kate’s hands and feet. But they were too incensed to listen. They stripped her of all but her chemise, then, with much shoving and infighting, bound the thumb of each hand to the big toe of the opposite foot.

  Kate sat cross-legged, her hunched shoulders trembling involuntarily. She watched the footman wade in up to his armpits. He had been too impatient even to take off his livery coat. It floated all round him as he turned and called, ‘Goes deeper yet, Master Grafton!’

  She stared emptily at the disturbed water, wondering why, of all places, it had to happen here. Where before to float staring up into the sky had been her secret pleasure, not a crime. And this the very log on which he had delivered her absolution ... Caelis in es qui noster Pater ... words reborn. New doors unlocked, old ones closed forever. Here in this tranquil place, which they now raped with their clumsy vengeance.

  Rough hands lifted her above the water. They carried her beyond the reeds, past the footman as he waded back to the bank, and when they could hold her no more, tossed her head first into the murky pool.

  The water rushed at her ears cutting out the jeering voices. She sank deep into the welcoming dark....

  And saw dogs clustered under the trailing branches of a willow. She saw their frenzied clawing – leaf mould and soft earth tossed between their hind legs; heard their whining gasps and jealous snarls as the thing began to take form. The worm-eaten, flesh-rotted thing....

  Kate fought the vision. She writhed against her bindings and the tangle of weeds; pushed and paddled until she burst through to the light. She gulped air, then crashed back under.

  She did not want to see it again. Cried out against it, but the cry floated away on a cloud of bubbles. And it was here; waiting for her among the waving tendrils, lurking in the muddy dark.

  Putrefaction laid bare beneath the slavering jaws and twitching snouts; the remains of a woman, carelessly buried. Earth-filled mouth stretched with the horror of death.

  Kate shrank into her terror. It was a woman no older than herself, sharing her build – tossed into a grave unmarked save for the dog-luring stench of decay. The image buckled her reeling mind, lured the breath from her aching lungs. Beckoned her consciousness.

  Marsden had come unnoticed. And while they jostled and jeered Kate’s first break for air, he cut Jack free. He watched the terrified dog career off into the wood then, unbuttoning his coat, strolled towards the crush of bodies by the water’s edge.

  ‘Damned creature isn’t coming up yet!’ yelled Tom Clarke, with an anxious glance at Grafton.

  ‘Give her time!’ snapped Barbara.

  Marsden pushed between niece and uncle. ‘Would you see the wretched woman drown?’ he asked, kicking off his boots and throwing his coat at Clarke.

  ‘Wait man!’ Grafton called after him. ‘We must know‒’

  But Marsden broke free of the hands that tried to detain him and splashed into the deeper water. When he could no longer walk, he dived under the surface and combed the mud-stirred bed until, at last, he found her caught up in the weeds. He grabbed a fistful of loose hair, tugged her free, then dragged her up towards the light.

  Kerry alone waded in to help him haul her to the bank. Kerry it was who cut her free and pummelled the water from her lungs. The others looked on in shifty-eyed silence while she spluttered back to life.

  Marsden walked away, his features twisted grimly, and pulled on his boots. Grafton laid a hand on his sleeve.

  ‘Damn it man,’ he blustered, ‘you know as well as any what is at stake here ... the pot-boy saw her cavorting with an evil spirit.’

  ‘The allegations of a weak-minded child?’ Marsden flared.

  ‘My decision to fetch this woman wasn’t based purely on the boy’s testimony,’ insisted Grafton. ‘So much points to her, surely you see that? And still does.’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Marsden. ‘So swimming her has done nothing to convince you of her innocence. Perhaps your mind refuses to accept such a possibility?’

  ‘Your intervention saw to that, sir!’ bridled Tom Clarke.

  ‘She refused to come to Apescross,’ Barbara cut in, ‘bloodied three of the men‒’

  ‘And knocked Miss Barbara to the ground,’ Clarke added quickly. Barbara spread her fingers with a conclusive smile.

  ‘Is that the reaction of an innocent woman, Mr Marsden?’ she asked.

  ‘Would a hare lay down to the hounds?’ he asked, dousing her smile with a cold stare.

  ‘Mr Marsden,’ she retorted, feigning protest, ‘we did not hunt this creature, merely requested she answer the charges against her.’

  Grafton shifted uneasily. ‘Your concern for the Gurney woman is admirable to a fault‒’ he said testily.

  ‘Who else will speak for her kind?’ Marsden asked.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Barbara pointedly, ‘is there truth in her claim that you are her kinsman?’

  Marsden drew a deep breath. He thrust out his lower lip and shook his head.

  ‘Surely, you can see my point,’ urged Grafton. ‘My first duty is to Caroline and the others. Since this woman refused to see them, what option is left to me but force?’

  Kate lay on the log, stuttering air into her lungs, knowing that he had come. She stared at his mud-soiled shirt, showing pink where the wet material clung to his skin. Felt his hands cup hers.

  ‘Come with me Kate,’ he said. ‘To prove your innocence.’

  ‘They want a scapegoat,’ she said, fighting the urge to cough. ‘Their fear ... they’ll kill me like they did my mother.’

  ‘Perhaps they will,’ he agreed. ‘But not yet, we still have time.’

  ‘I saw‒’ she began, shivering with remembered terror but seeing Grafton and the others peering over his shoulder, clutched his wrist and whispered, ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘Well, will she come freely?’ demanded Grafton. Marsden stood up, and taking his coat from Clarke, answered, ‘She’ll come.’

  They had left Caroline till last. Last for what, she was not quite sure. Five times the polished doors into the hall had opened and five times an older child had followed Parson Peebles’ beckoning finger and been sealed in by the click of a lock.

  She tried peeping through the keyhole but the escutcheon plate inside, blocked her view. She squashed her face against the cold floor tiles in an attempt to see under the door but the narrow gap was cluttered with grit and dust. So
she pressed herself against the wainscoting idly scuffing her heels against the oak panels and wishing with all her heart that she had been born before Cissie, or Ollie, or Joseph and had not been the last to go in.

  The sharp click of the door handle made her stomach lurch. She clenched her tingling fingers and pushed harder against the panelling.

  ‘Come child,’ said the parson, nodding encouragement. Caroline frowned at him.

  ‘Am I to be punished,’ she asked warily.

  He held out his wrinkled hand and said gently, ‘No child.’ Then he took her reluctant hand in his and steered her through the doorway.

  After the dimness of the corridor, the brilliant light of the hall hurt her eyes. She squinted into the brightness and saw many attentive faces; some seated, others standing behind. All of them were staring at her in silent expectation.

  Last of all she saw the woman – caught in a shaft of sunlight as she stood on the centre mat where the table usually stood. Caroline saw and turned panic-stricken to the priest.

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ he said, gently pushing her towards Kate.

  The girlchild’s eyes darted around the circle of faces; at Cissie and her brothers, sitting cross-legged on the floor; at her father’s unyielding mask; at her mother’s white anxiety. She felt the first tears spill on to her burning cheek.

  And the witch woman smiled her jagged smile; knelt and tempted her with soft words. But the girlchild knew it was only a witch’s ruse and backed away. She yelped as strong hands barred her retreat. Turned and clung to the neck of her friend, Mr Marsden.

  ‘Caroline, my girl,’ he whispered, stroking her hair, ‘Go to her. She will not harm you while I am here.’

  ‘I-I dare not!’ she whimpered. He prised her arms from his neck, clasped her burning face between his hands and stared into her frightened eyes.

  ‘Go to her,’ he breathed and with his finger smoothed the furrows between her eyes. The girlchild sighed as a breeze fragrant with meadow grasses seemed to cool her face. She turned and found the faces gone. No walls, no silent expectation. Just bird-song meadows and tethered to a tree not far away, the lamb. She rushed joyfully towards the basking creature, buried her face in its black wool, curled herself around its warmth.