The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1)

by Amanda Hughes

  “So this is Mistress Swinburne.”

  Circe jumped. It was Dante De la Rosa.

  She clutched her chest and exclaimed, “Sir, you gave me a start.”

  He was standing at the entrance to the Rhys house, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. He was dressed in ill-fitting britches and a tunic. “My apologies for scaring you. I am on my first outing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Circe replied. “May I help you with something?”

  “Well, yes; as a matter of fact, I am here on business,” and he walked into the room.

  It was the first time she had seen Dante De la Rosa since he had come to Glendower weeks earlier. The first thing she noticed was that he was clean. He was no longer in rags and had gained weight. He was an attractive man, tall with broad shoulders and a dark olive complexion. He wore his black hair in the fashion of the cavalier, wavy and long, just touching the top of his shoulders, and he sported a tiny beard and mustache.

  Circe noticed De la Rosa’s black eyes scan the room. They were sharp and alert. But she didn’t like the familiar way he touched things. He picked them up, examined them and put them back down without asking permission. She found it rude and bold.

  “They say you are the best weaver in the English Colonies, maybe even Europe,” he said, examining some linen. “I find that to be a bit overstated.”

  Circe ground her teeth. “I’m very busy, Mr. De la Rosa. What is your business?”

  He swung around and looked at her. “Oh, did I offend? It is just that I have a discerning eye. I’ll come to the point. I need a suit of clothes,” and he looked down at the clothing Cedric had given to him. “These archaic costumes are not to my liking. Arch Derwydd Rhys will pay you. I will reimburse him once I am established in Boston this spring.”

  “You are staying the winter?”

  Raising his arms in a sarcastic gesture, he said, “Now where would I go, Mistress Swinburne?”

  Circe sighed and stood up, walking to the cupboard. She took down a book and opened it. Dipping a quill, she asked, “What do you desire?”

  “I am in the English Colonies, so I suppose anything of fashion would be frowned upon. Just linen for several shirts, blue wool for a waistcoat and coat, and cloth for two sets of breeches. Who is the tailor here?”

  “Mr. Gareth Evans.”

  “I have need of boots as well.”

  “Arch Derwydd Rhys will show you where the tanner and bootmaker reside. Anything else?” she said curtly.

  He smirked. It was obvious he enjoyed annoying her.

  “No, that will be all, Mistress Swinburne,” and he bowed. “I bid you good night.”

  * * *

  The next morning, when Circe returned to the weaving room, Del la Rosa was there again. He was standing with Mercy holding a length of blue cloth. Mercy looked up. She was teeming with her third child and appeared as wide as she was tall. “Mr. De la Rosa and I were discussing dyes. He is an apothecary.”

  “And an authority on everything,” Circe mumbled as she took off her cloak.

  “This blue is too light,” he said holding up the cloth. “I understand you are still using woad.”

  “Of course,” Circe replied, brusquely.

  He shook his head and mumbled something in Spanish.

  “Mr. De la Rosa has another option for blue dye,” Mercy said excitedly. She had been working tirelessly on new, more vibrant colors.

  “A richer hue can be achieved with the indigo plant. You know nothing of this?”

  “I do not,” Circe replied.

  “In Spain, we have been using it for years. Ships bring it from Asia. The color is much more brilliant and you need less of the plant.” He looked at the snow blowing outside the window. “But you may have to tend the plants inside in this ungodly climate.”

  Circe hated to admit it but she was interested, and she could see Mercy’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm.

  “How may I obtain this plant?”

  “Merchant ships from the Indies could bring it. I have seen it growing there. Send for it once spring arrives and leave woad to painting the faces of Celtic warriors.”

  Mercy tied Dante’s cloth into a neat bundle and handed it to him.

  “Gracias,” he said, looking into her eyes. “It has been most pleasant speaking with you.”

  She blushed.

  When he left, Circe huffed and said, “Now I understand why Mistress Charles detests him.”

  “He is rather outspoken,” Mercy replied. “But I do adore his accent.”

  * * *

  That evening, Cedric called the Derwydds to his home. All fifteen were in attendance; they gathered around his long trestle table. Dante de La Rosa was there as well at Rhun and Saffir. Candles, a pitcher of water and a bowl were on the table.

  “I believe by now that you have all met Mr. De la Rosa,” Cedric said, addressing the group. “And you are familiar with his background. In our quest to understand why the Goddess brought him to us, he has something to share. Mr. De la Rosa has carried this bit of cloth with him for a long time, sewn into the lining of his jacket.” Cedric held it up. “It is a simple bit of linen that his mother, a powerful ovate, gave to him. She said he would know when it was time to reveal its secret. He believes now is the time and that it is intended for us.”

  All heads turned toward De la Rosa. “It is a mystery to me as well,” he said. Unrolling the piece of linen, he placed it in the shallow bowl and instructed, “Please observe.”

  Picking up the pitcher, he poured water over the cloth, gently pressing the fabric down. Four amber colored dots began to appear.

  “Invisibilia atramento,” he said in Latin. “Invisible ink done with alum. When water is applied, the ink appears. Heat works as well.”

  Everyone leaned forward to look. Dots the size of pumpkin seeds appeared randomly all over the cloth.

  “What is it?” Cedric asked.

  Dante stared at the fabric and shook his head. “I do not know.”

  They waited as he continued to push the cloth down into the water. Nothing else materialized. There was no writing. There was no design.

  “Do you suppose it has been damaged?” Rhun asked.

  “Perhaps,” Dante said.

  “Your mother shared nothing with you about its meaning?” one of the elderly Derwydds asked.

  “No.”

  “Would any sort of image appear if the marks were joined?” Saffir suggested.

  Dante slid the bowl across the table and she looked, but she was unable to make any sense of the random assortment of marks.

  Each Derwydd took a turn examining the linen, but no one had any ideas.

  At last, Cedric said, “Let us adjourn for tonight and ponder this. If we are quiet, perhaps the Goddess will speak to one of us.”

  They nodded and left.

  No answer was revealed that night or any night thereafter. Eventually, the Derwydds returned to their daily lives, forgetting Dante’s mysterious swatch of linen. Everyone gave up except Dante. He ruminated night and day about the meaning of the cloth.

  Eager to divert his attention, he offered to help the ovate, Mistress Charles. She took him into her practice, although he irritated her. His bedside manner was poor but his skill as an apothecary was exceptional.

  In January, a dangerous fever spread across the village, and Ruith joined them. Mistress Charles knew her gentle nature would complement Dante’s gruff demeanor.

  One evening, when they finished work, Dante decided to speak with Ruith. “It has plagued me for some time,” he said, rolling his sleeves down and gathering his remedies. “What was the vision like when you were called to find me?”

  Ruith’s brow furrowed as she tied on her cloak. “It was like no other. I experienced an urgency, a nagging need to find you even though I could not see you. Every day it grew in intensity, so much so that it made me ill. It is still painful to remember.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No.” />
  “See anything?”

  “No, please, I would rather not revisit it.”

  “What was the feeling like? Can you give me anything at all?”

  “The memory is agonizing,” Ruith moaned, clutching her temples.

  “Oh, I have upset you,” he said and touched her hand. “I was far too insistent.”

  He watched her anxiously, and gradually her breathing slowed. At last, she said, “They say you are abrasive and unkind, Mr. De la Rosa. I find this to be far from the truth.”

  He smiled a crooked smile. “Please tell no one. Occasionally, even I have bouts of sentimentality.”

  Chapter 13

  The February festival of Imbolc was approaching and, in spite of the contagion, the village of Glendower came alive once more. It was not celebrated on the grand scale of Calan Mai and Calan Gaeaf, but nevertheless, it was a welcome break from the everyday struggles of winter.

  A bonfire was built in the center of town and a ceremonial lighting of candles was conducted to symbolize the return of daylight. Everyone would return to their homes for a festive meal since it was too cold to have a communal feast in the square.

  The villagers engaged in a ritual bathing with oils to honor the Goddess. All day long, Ruith and Circe kept a blaze going under a crucible just outside the door of the cottage. It was backbreaking work toting the hot water inside, but when it was Circe’s turn to slide down into the wooden tub by the hearth, she melted.

  “Ewan stay here,” Ruith said. He was trying to climb down the ladder from the loft.

  “But I want to play in the water,” he protested.

  “No, it is your sister’s turn to bathe. Now leave her alone.”

  “We will be ever so quiet,” Mari pleaded.

  “I said no.”

  Circe slid down into the scented water drenching her hair. Tonight, was the beginning of the festival; she must be clean from head to toe.

  The children whined and teased, but Ruith remained firm. By evening, when it was their turn to bathe, they were no longer interested. Both of them were tired and out of sorts.

  “No bonfire for you tonight, children,” Saffir said when she returned home. “You need to sleep.”

  Circe began pulling out the trundle beds. “Saffir, go or you will miss the sacred rites. Ruith and I will watch the children.”

  “But you will miss the bonfire.”

  “We’ll take turns,” Ruith added.

  Saffir quickly donned her sacred robes and was out the door.

  Once Ewan and Mari were asleep, Ruith told Circe to go first. She draped on her best cloak, a green and gold tartan lined with rabbit fur and started for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Pulling up her hood, Circe stepped out into the cold, night air. The sky was a deep blue, and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Snow crunched under her feet and her breath misted in the air. She walked along humming and making her way toward the center of the village for the candle-lighting ceremony. Suddenly, someone opened a cottage door and light spilled across her path. It was Dante De la Rosa; he was holding his apothecary box.

  Circe’s elation vanished. She increased her pace, but it was too late. He had spotted her.

  “Is that you, Mistress Swinburne?” he called, running up beside her. “Surely you are not trying to avoid me. Here I am, a poor Spanish outsider, completely friendless in this hostile environment.”

  “Any hostility you feel, Mr. De la Rosa,” Circe said, walking briskly and looking straight ahead. “Is brought on by your own insolence.”

  He laughed. “Indeed, I am not well liked here but you must admit, part of it is that the English do not trust the Spanish.”

  “You know quite well that I am not referring to that. And I might add, you’ll gain no allies calling these villagers Englishmen. They are Welsh.”

  “Ah yes,” he mumbled to himself. “My father is turning over in his grave. We are all Celts, though, are we not? Even the Spanish.”

  “Celts in Spain? Nonsense.”

  “You are mistaken. The Celts traveled as far south as the Mediterranean. My mother’s family in Granada have been practicing the old ways for centuries. When my father wasn’t delivering goods, he was searching and finding Celtic settlements all over the continent.” And then he grimaced. “I had my fill of Celts after that.”

  “You sailed with him?”

  “I did.”

  “Is that is how you learned our language?”

  “Yes, but my Welsh is poor--” and Dante broke into English. “I am told though that my English is flawless.”

  Circe gestured back toward the cottage. “If you are an apothecary, then how is it you are practicing as an ovate?”

  “Your Mistress Charles has been overwhelmed, and so I offered my assistance. Thanks to my mother, I have some skills in the area. But you are correct. I am not an ovate. Thank the gods for that. I am not fond of people.”

  They walked for a while in stiff silence.

  “And how is the business of weaving, Mistress Swinburne?” he asked at last.

  “We have been busy,” she replied. Although it was dark, she could see he was dressed in new britches, a waistcoat and tall boots. Over it all, he wore a new coat. “I see you have put our cloth to use. But your clothing is not suitable for Glendower.”

  “Which concerns me not, since I am leaving for the Indies with the first thaw.”

  “A relief to us all,” she muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  Circe found it disconcerting to be around this man. He brought out a snide side to her personality she did not like.

  Seeing her unlit lantern, he said, “Let me guess. You are going to the Imbolc fires.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know that in Spain the Catholics call it Candlemas?”

  “Do you know you harp endlessly about Spain?”

  “I, for one, am not going to Imbolc. I have had enough of that foolishness.”

  “Oh, of course. You are a man of science,” she said sarcastically.

  “Indeed, I am. And with that, I leave the superstition and fancy to you, Mistress Swinburne. I bid you good night.” He bowed low and turned down another path.

  It didn’t take long for Circe to forget Dante De la Rosa. Moments later, she was in the center of town where crowds had gathered around a huge bonfire listening to Derwydd invocations to Brigid.

  Circe listened to the prayers and then watched the villagers light torches and lanterns to pass over their farm fields where they would ask Brigid for blessings of fertility. This would go on all night long.

  Circe ran her eyes over the crowd. Young and old had gathered. Many faces were familiar but many were not. Glendower had grown quickly over the past few years. She noticed several men were dressed in bearskins to celebrate the awakening of the creatures from their long hibernation. Children gathered around them, fascinated. This was the part of Imbolc which Ewan and Mari loved.

  With that thought, Circe realized it was time to return home. Ruith would want to partake in the celebration and ritual walk as well. She quickly lit a candle from the bonfire, put it in her lantern and returned to the cottage.

  When she arrived, Ruith’s face was pinched with anxiety. “Come here,” she said. “Feel the children’s foreheads.”

  Circe touched their skin. It was hot and red.

  “I fear they have contracted the illness that plagues Glendower,” Ruith said.

  Circe jumped up. “I am going for Mistress Charles.”

  “Whatever you do, make haste,” Ruith said.

  The children were delirious with fever by the time Circe returned with Mistress Charles. “Bathe them with cool cloths,” she advised. “And give them this preparation every two hours. It is foul tasting and they will resist, but they must have it. Do not fret. They will improve in a few days.”

  But Ewan and Mari did not improve. In fact, their fever worsened. They went from restless and agitated to listless.

&
nbsp; Saffir and Rhun were growing frantic.

  Mistress Charles was at a loss when she returned. “This is unusual. I do not understand,” the tiny ovate said. She, too, looked ill. She was pale, and her lips were white. She handed Saffir another bottle of medicine. “I strengthened the ingredients. Continue to administer this and I will return later today.”

  Saffir collapsed into Rhun’s arms the moment she left. “Something is horribly wrong. I can feel it. We can’t lose them,” she sobbed.

  “Have faith, my dear,” Rhun said as he stroked her dark curls, but Circe saw the haggard look on his face.

  A feeling of doom swept over the household as Ewan and Mari struggled. Their little bodies drenched in perspiration, too weak to open their eyes. Ruith looked exhausted as well. She had stayed awake for two days trying to impart her strength into them and murmuring invocations to the Goddess. Circe had never seen her family so distraught.

  There was a knock on the door late that afternoon.

  “Mr. De la Rosa,” Rhun said with surprise. “We were expecting Mistress Charles.”

  “She has taken sick, Mr. Swinburne,” he replied. “I am here in her place.”

  “Oh my,” Saffir said, jumping to her feet. “Has she too succumbed to this malady?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Come in,” Rhun said.

  With pursed lips, Circe took Dante’s cloak and hung it on a peg. This man is not qualified, she thought.

  He rolled up his sleeves and sat down on Mari’s bed. Putting his hand on her forehead, he frowned and then ran his fingers under her jaw. She did not move. He did the same thing with Ewan and pulled up the boy’s eyelids. “What has Mistress Charles been giving them?”

  Saffir handed him the bottle. He uncorked it, sniffed it and nodded. He mumbled something in Spanish and then rubbed his forehead. They all watched him anxiously.

  Suddenly, Dante lifted Ewan’s nightshirt. The boy’s skin was covered with a red pinpoint rash. He turned him over, and his back was covered as well. “Did Mistress Charles see this?”