The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  Stewart thought it thrilling to listen to the sombre voice of the gypsy as dark gathered over the lake, and the only light in the room came from the guttering candles on the polished oak table. He thought of her sleeping rough and living like a nomad, no table, no bed. He got up and took her hand and kissed it, noting how fine and smooth it was, the long nails blunted at the ends but not rough or jagged. Although her clothes were poor they were clean and her body was sweet-smelling. She took care of herself.

  ‘I wish you would stay,’ he said. ‘At least stay and see Mary married. Rest here awhile. Nelly is not nearly fit to go; see if the spell works. I will try it tomorrow. With you.’

  Analee laughed into his earnest young eyes. Why not stay a while if he meant it, and it seemed he did? Maybe she could dance at Mary’s wedding, reward her like that? She got up and clasped his hand, her eyes shining.

  ‘Well ... maybe a little longer if you really wish it. Now I must take Nelly her dinner. See how she does. It is late for me to be awake. I am like the birds, as I told you. I will see you tomorrow.’

  Betty had already taken up Nelly’s food and Nelly was asleep when Analee got to their room. She had come slowly up the stairs, along the corridors. She got in beside Nelly and lay for a long time with her hands clasped beneath her head looking out onto the dark sky studded with stars.

  Analee thought that, tomorrow or soon, she and Nelly would bed down as they always did beside a ditch or under cover of a rocky crag. Sometimes they found a cave and stayed a day or two if it were cold or wet. Luxury like this she had never known. But, to her surprise, she did not dislike it as much as she thought she would: the feel of the sheets on her bare skin – for she did not wear a chemise as Nelly did – the boards under her bare feet when she got up. The gleaming table at dinner with silver, and flaming wax candles, plates and the smell of hot food.

  It was her first real experience of living in a house and she liked it. It was attractive. It appealed to something in Analee she didn’t know she possessed.

  Suddenly, her head resting on her hands clasped on the fine white flock-filled pillows, Analee thought of the man who had lain in this room recovering from an illness. He would have looked out on the stars as she did He and Mary had fallen in love; maybe they had lain together in this very bed.

  And suddenly, for no reason at all that she could understand, Analee had a clear picture of the long lost Brent Delamain, and with his image in her mind she fell asleep.

  Brent Delamain had ridden hard since leaving Cockermouth at first light, John close behind him. It had been a glorious morning as they left the valley and began the ascent of the foothills just as the sun broke over Grisedale Pike and the fells, covered with heather and brown bracken, had the rich golden gleam of fresh honey. They toiled up towards Whinlatter, and the brown and green fells gave way to the thick forest of tall straight firs through which many a mountain stream cascaded from its source over stones and fallen logs towards Buttermere and Crummock Water.

  As it rose the sunlight pierced the trees, dispersing the dense morning mist which spiralled up like smoke through the thick branches. At times Brent’s nostrils caught the scent of wood smoke caused by the charcoal burners who plied a living in the forest.

  After a steep descent into Braithwaite they rested, taking bread and ale at the hostelry, and then set off along the narrow bridle paths that meandered through the Newlands Valley by way of Stair and Skelgill and climbed high up to Skelgill Bank and across the top to Catbells. All the way along this last part the lake of Derwentwater gleamed below them, a broad glistening ribbon mirroring the blue sky and clouds, the purple hills that surrounded it and the forest which ran alongside either bank.

  From where he waited for John to catch up Brent could see across to Low Moss, Castlerigg Fell and away to Watendlath, and then in the distance the high snowy peaks at the end of Borrowdale.

  But below lay the jewel, the prize, its tall chimneys and soft red stone, its gables and mullioned windows reflected in the still lake: Furness Grange and at its core nestled his beloved Mary. He imagined he saw her walking in the grounds and raised his hand to call, but he was too far away. He looked at John who smilingly indicated he should go ahead, and then he dug his heels into his horse and raced down across the fell towards the house.

  And indeed it had been Mary walking in the grounds on her way back from taking Stewart and Nat their noonday meal. She clasped her hand over her eyes against the sun as she heard the sound of hooves and there he was towering over her on his horse; and then he had jumped down and she was in his arms.

  She could feel his heart beating against her cheek pressed tightly to his chest, and her own arms could scarcely encircle his back he had grown so big. Not fat, she could feel his bones beneath her fingers. He had just developed girth in the months they had been apart. She could feel his mouth in her hair murmuring words of love and then she raised her head, and that face she had seen in so many dreams, that mouth of such gentleness came down on hers, and for Mary Allonby it was the sweetest moment she had ever known in her life. Sweeter than the first kiss, the first embrace. She knew this was so sweet because it was the prelude to giving herself completely to Brent; to becoming one with him, his wife.

  His mouth moved from hers to her throat and, lower down, she could feel his hands trying to slip in between the folds of her bodice. Reality came back and with it thoughts of her brother or the gypsy, maybe, looking out of an upstairs window at them.

  ‘Brent! You have grown so broad.’

  ‘Aye, ‘tis the good life of the sea.’ He held her away from him and took in every inch of her precious body.

  ‘And you have grown too, as your brother said. So comely, yes, and a little rounded. Oh Mary, when can we be wed?’

  ‘You still want to be wed, Brent?’

  ‘Can you doubt it? Urgently. Immediately.’

  ‘It is what I want, too.’

  ‘Despite the war?’

  ‘Because of it,’ Mary said pressing her head against him again, wanting once more to hear that firm steady heartbeat.

  Stewart had heard the hooves and, giving time for his sister and cousin to be reunited, joined them where they had remained by the side of the house. It was a relief to him to see them clinging to each other as though they could never bear to be parted. He, too, had wondered what changes the intervening months might have brought, feared the effects on his sister’s happiness. But there, they clung to each other and he knew all was well. He held out his hand.

  ‘Brent.’

  ‘Oh, Stewart! John is coming more slowly over yonder fell.’

  Brent glanced upwards. ‘I think he wanted to be tactful.’

  ‘Aye, he did well. I see you are of the same mind Brent.’

  ‘More than ever. When can we be wed, Stewart?’

  ‘I have told the priest. He is ready to marry you as soon as you wish it.’

  ‘Then fetch him to the chapel as quick as you can and let us get wed.’

  Like many of the old Catholic families the Grange had a small chapel where the priest said Mass when he came by. There was a priest at Keswick, Father Bernard, who lived by staying with one Catholic family then another. John knew where he was now and had already sent word to him.

  ‘He will be here by tomorrow.’

  ‘Then tomorrow we will be wed, Mary?’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow. Oh, Brent I can scarcely believe it.’

  ‘We are just doing, Mary, what should have happened months ago.’

  Brent pursed his mouth in the stern expression Mary knew so well.

  ‘Do not be angry, Brent. We have each other now.’

  ‘I am not angry, merely sad we wasted so much time.’ He kissed her lightly and took her hand.

  ‘I must wash after my journey. Is my room ... ?’

  ‘Oh, Brent we have two guests. I’m sure they will bring us luck. They are gypsies and one of them hurt her foot. I’m afraid they are in your old room ...’

  �
�Never mind,’ Brent said, ‘soon I will be in yours.’

  ‘I put you next to Stewart, that is the room next to mine.’

  ‘I’ll go and wash and change my clothes and be with you soon, sweetheart.’

  Brent waved and went into the house as John clattered up and, eyes shining with happiness, Mary turned to greet him.

  The hot noon sun gleamed on the stairs. Huge beams, in which the dust rose, shone through the long mullioned windows that illuminated the staircase, panes of blue and rose and yellow making the sun spots glisten with a thousand colours. Brent loved the old house, the smell of beeswax and candles. He leapt up the stairs four at a time and then went quickly along the gallery that ran the length of the hall.

  And there she was, coming towards him as in a dream. The dark hair, the supple body, the face that he knew so well but which had remained shadowy for him, became clear. The most beautiful woman in the world; the goddess always seen in moonlight or in the myriad beams of the dancing, coloured sun. Dancing; she was a dancer and her quick, sure-footed steps, her lithe, graceful body with upraised arms clicking her castanets were as vivid at that moment as when he had last seen her. She saw him; but still she came on and he thought she was a vision, a ghost and would walk straight through him. But she stopped just in front of him and he could smell her tantalizing body smells, a haunting heady perfume that became dear and familiar to him as the mist that had obscured his memory finally dispersed.

  ‘Analee,’ he said.

  So this was the gadjo, this was Mary’s betrothed, the man she had fallen in love with as he lay recovering from an illness. Of course he was her cousin, a relation by blood; they even looked so much alike. In a way, she realized, she had always known it. The feel of the house, the familiarity, the peace, the sense of home-coming that was so unusual. She had slept in Brent’s bed; had looked on the view that had given him so much pleasure as Mary had brought him back to life – to a life of which Randal had nearly deprived him.

  ‘It is you,’ she said.

  He tried to reach out for her but she stepped back. It was much too dangerous she knew; besides he had easily forgotten her, fallen into the arms of another. Yet the look on his face ... it was as though something had come to him from a long way away, something strange.

  How could he explain how he had forgotten her? Brent gazed at her and saw the bewilderment on her face. In an instant he remembered everything; his first meeting with her, his search for her, hunting her, possessing her. He remembered her dance in the tavern, the way she had danced just for him.

  ‘Analee, how could I have forgotten you?’

  ‘Then you did forget?’

  ‘Everything. Until now, until I saw you.’

  ‘You were very ill,’ she said gently. ‘After the blow on the head?’

  ‘I remembered nothing.’

  ‘And fell in love with Mary. She is very sweet ...’

  Mary. Brent closed his eyes. Mary ...

  ‘I …’

  ‘She loves you Brent; loves you so much she can’t wait to marry you.’

  ‘But I ...’

  ‘You can’t go back on her now. It would kill her. I know her; in a short time I have become her friend.’

  He had such a desperate look on his face that she began to suffer too.

  ‘Besides, I am married as well,’ she said. ‘It cannot be for us again.’

  Brent’s face seemed to swell with an awful rage and he tried to grab her shoulder, but still she backed away from him.

  ‘You married! Then you didn’t remember either.’

  ‘Oh, I remembered, but I had no choice. The man who nearly killed you captured me. It is a gypsy tradition that if you capture a bride she must marry you whether she wants to or not.’

  ‘Then you are not really married; not in your heart. It is not too late.’

  She began to walk away from him, slowly back down the corridor and he followed her.

  ‘It is too late, much much too late. Make your life again ...’

  ‘Of course I can’t make my life again now I have found you. You are my life. Analee let us go now. Let us ...’

  Sadly Analee shook her head.

  ‘No, no ... abuse the hospitality of the sweet people here? I love them, Brent, and they like and trust me. Mary is a lovely girl, your sort of girl ...’

  ‘She’s my cousin ...’

  ‘Your people. We are not meant to live as normal people, Brent. There is something about you and I that is doomed. You would never forgive yourself as a man if you deserted Mary now. We could never be happy in a life built on such sorrow. You would soon tire of the wandering life Brent; life with me ...’

  ‘I’ve been a wanderer too on the seas, Analee. Let us go somewhere and talk about this. There is some solution.’

  He gazed at her and she knew the solution lay with her. She nodded, as if agreeing with him.

  ‘We will meet later, after dinner. We will find a solution.’

  He grasped her hand, and the thrill of the feel of her flesh was like nothing he had known before or since, not with Mary, not with anyone.

  ‘No,’ he said desperately. ‘Let us now ...’

  ‘After dinner,’ she said. ‘Behave normally now. Do as you would do.’

  She gazed up at him, her gadjo, Morella’s father, and gently let her hand pass across his face as though to etch his features on her palm. Then she turned abruptly into the room she shared with Nelly.

  Brent Delamain, his mind in a turmoil, waited for the dinner to begin. How could he guard his expression when Analee came into the room, avoid showing that, for him, she was the only woman in the world, the one it seemed to him he had always sought? In every other woman he had been trying to find Analee, and when he had found her he had lost her, and then found her again ... and now he was being told it was too late.

  He had wanted to follow her into her room, but she shut the door and he stood gazing at it helplessly for some time before finding the one meant for him and throwing himself in despair on the bed.

  ‘Womanizer!’ they would all say. ‘Brent Delamain never changes. He came to marry Mary and made off with someone else.’

  No one would ever trust him again. They would say he was fickle, undependable. Above all, they would say he was not fit to serve the Prince. All these thoughts and more, warred with his own desire. They fought within him, so that when at last he appeared downstairs Mary, running up to greet her beloved and seeing his expression, had asked if he were ill? She had expected him down hours before, anticipating him running into her arms. But he told her he was merely tired and then his eyes had wandered over her head looking for something. He was looking for something now, Mary thought, or someone – his eyes kept staring at the door. He looked ill at ease, unhappy. The relaxed lover she had greeted only hours before behaved now like some sort of fugitive, his face pale, his eyes restless. Was he in trouble?

  But Stewart and John appeared not to notice and happily discussed the nuptials that would take place on the morrow as soon as the priest arrived.

  ‘We had best begin,’ John said at last. ‘I know not where our guest is. What is her name?’

  ‘Analee.’

  Analee ... Brent closed his eyes. Oh that word ‘Analee’ – it rang in his mind with all the force of an echo that had been lost and forgotten and now resounded louder than ever. ‘ANALEE...’

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ Mary said, glancing slyly at Brent. ‘All the men fall madly in love with her.’

  ‘Ah, really?’ Brent tried to be jocular. ‘Well give us the chance then. Pray, where is this Analee?’

  ‘Betty has gone up to fetch her. Maybe she is shy with the company.’

  Any moment Analee would come through the door, Brent thought. And she would stand and stare and he would ...

  ‘Miss she has gone!’ Betty flurried into the room carrying the large tureen of soup. ‘Gypsies! Made off with the family plate for all we know.’

  ‘Gone?’

&n
bsp; Mary looked up suddenly, but it was not Mary who had spoken. It was Brent. He even seemed half to rise from his seat and then thought better of it.

  ‘How “gone” Betty?’ Mary said calmly. ‘And Nelly, too?’

  ‘Both miss, and the room as clean as a whistle and the bed turned back.’

  ‘How very unusual,’ John said offhandedly reaching for the soup ladle. ‘As you say, gypsies I suppose, Betty.’

  Stewart too seemed disturbed. He had been so looking forward to wandering in the garden after dinner with Analee, maybe casting the spell together with her by the lake.

  ‘But they were not like that!’ Mary said, her mind preoccupied by the mystery, but above all by the stricken look on Brent’s face, the way he had half risen at Betty’s news. ‘At least Analee was not. What can have sent them away?’

  ‘Very impolite,’ John said. ‘Soup, Brent?’

  ‘Please. Maybe they came to some harm?’ Brent was trying to control his voice, his emotions, still the pounding of his heart. He wanted to get up and run from the room mount his horse; they could not have gone far ... He felt panic rising and subsiding in waves, like a terrible fear that is felt and repelled in turns.

  ‘Harm? What sort of harm? No, they have had enough and gone. Never mind.’ John passed Brent his soup bowl and turned with a question to Mary.

  ‘Please.’ Mary nodded to her brother, ‘but I am sad about it. I so like Analee. I hoped she would be here for our wedding.’

  Wedding. Brent felt a tremor run from head to foot. It was as though he was passing through a nightmare. He was going to marry Mary tomorrow. Analee had betrayed him.

  ‘What is it with thee, Brent? I think you are still fatigued.’

  Stewart too had been observing the strange behaviour of his cousin; how restless and anxious he seemed, how he wriggled about in his seat. How pale and haggard he was after appearing so comely and well on his arrival.