Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  ‘Then, as always, we must step into the circle and close it behind us.’

  He took her hand and led her inside the circle and drew the branch across the opening to seal it. Straightening out the blankets close to the fire, he told her to face the east and to kneel and wait while he prepared the circle. She half listened to the rise and fall of his voice as he spoke the incantations, letting the unfamiliar words wash over her, lulled by the rhythm of the sacred syllables as he turned to each of the four points of the compass, addressing a summons to each and invoking the Elements with a rough-hewn wand she hadn’t seen before. Watching him, her eyes grazed across his pale body as he moved, the long limbs and taut muscles, the smooth, round buttocks. Then as he turned to the west she saw him proud and erect, and the desire of her dream surged through her. She closed her eyes, remembering she was to think of Nick, and listened once more to the words as he spoke now to the west.

  ‘Gabriel, archangel and guardian of the West, may I partake in the mysteries of water. May your blessings descend in the name of EL.’

  He circled to the north.

  ‘Auriel, archangel and guardian of the North, may I partake in the mysteries of earth. May your blessings descend in the name of ADONAI.’

  Then he returned to stand before her in the east.

  ‘I beseech Thee, O Lord God, that Thou will deign to bless this Circle, and all those who are therein to preserve us from evil and from trouble: grant, O Lord, that we may rest in this place in safety through Thee, O Lord, who livest and reignest unto the Ages of the Ages. Amen.’

  When at last he fell silent, she opened her eyes. He was kneeling before her, and holding a piece of charcoal in his hand. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid – I will always keep you safe.’

  She frowned, not understanding, until he smiled and from his memory began to trace out the figure of a sigil between her breasts, imbuing her with its power. For a moment she was terrified, holding her breath. This seemed dark magic indeed, and all the fears of the evil that the play had stirred rippled through her before she forced herself to recall that Tom was her brother and he had promised to keep her safe. So she lowered her eyes to watch him make the lines, marking her with the sign that would call to the spirit who owned it, and as he worked she could feel the weight of its latent darkness: it was no idle drawing. Finishing the symbol, he drew back a little to admire his work. What daemon would it summon? she wondered. What spirit would come? Her breath quickened with her nerves, and for a moment her instincts cried out against it. This was sorcery beyond her knowledge, a dangerous path.

  ‘Trust me,’ Tom said. He dropped the charcoal and smiled at her again, reassuring, but his gaze travelled over her body with open desire and she lowered her eyes, made shy by his attention and the sudden full awareness of her nakedness, of all that they were doing, her body his now to take. Then he reached out his hand to touch her breast, and shifted nearer. As his mouth closed in to kiss her, her shyness was forgotten, all sensation converging on the pleasure of his touch.

  His lips moved on hers, tongue searching inside her mouth, and it took her a moment to understand the rhythm as he used his weight and arms to lower her onto her back, his body weighing down on hers, their mouths still pressed together. Then his hand was trailing down across her belly, between her legs, seeking out the secret places, rubbing and probing, and the unfamiliar sensations took her breath away and sent heat through her blood. It was hard to remember to think of Nick when her desire was bound up with Tom, but she brought her mind back to him again and again, imagining it was his hand, his member, and sending out her desire to the spirits.

  Then Tom began to speak again but not to her, half-heard words vibrating close to her ear:

  ‘I conjure you … by the virtue and power of his divine majesty …. and by the innumerable powers that you and your superiors possess …’

  She let his voice encase her, wrapping herself in the power of the words as his fingers still rubbed and probed the openings that led inside her body. Pain mingled with the pleasure as he forced his fingers deeper, fire burning so that she could no longer have said what part of her he was touching, only that she knew he had reached inside her, the gates to her body breached.

  His voice was still murmuring the words close to her ear, but she knew they were not addressed to her.

  ‘That wherever you are you should rise up from your place without delay and seduce the heart and mind of Nicholas Tooley to the love of my sister …’

  She was aware of his cock against her, testing with its tip, touching first one entrance then the other, his hand still rubbing, heat still burning. Then a searing pain engulfed her as he pushed himself inside her and she cried out and tried to struggle, her first instinct to escape, but his weight held her fast, pinning her, so she surrendered to the pain, shifting her legs to let him move deeper, and the pain ceded swiftly into pleasure. He slowed his movements, aware of the change, but he was still murmuring to some unseen being and she was suddenly conscious that they were not alone: another presence was with them and witness to their union. She looked up wildly but saw nothing except the shifting shadows of the firelight’s flicker.

  ‘Ask for him now,’ Tom’s voice commanded in her ear, bringing her back. ‘Send out your desire for him.’

  He began to thrust harder, deeper, faster, and she did not want to think of Nick, her whole body wracked with the pleasure of her brother, but she forced her mind over and over toward the image of the dream, ecstasy building, consuming her, and she held the image of Nick in her mind as she climaxed, overwhelmed by the sin and the pleasure of it until slowly the waves began to ebb and faded to ripples of a warmth that suffused her. She lay quietly, still trembling in the aftermath, aware now of everything as though her senses had opened up new doors of understanding. She could feel every inch of Tom’s body against the skin of her ribs and her belly, the slick of sweat between them, the distribution of his weight, the rough woollen weave of the blanket under her back, and his hands cupping her head, holding her gently. He had stopped talking and the sense of company had gone – whatever it was he had summoned had left them. He lay quite still inside her, sensations pulsing through her, but she felt no more desire to escape. It was a part of her and she let it be, accepting all that was.

  They lay for what seemed a long time until at last he pushed himself up on his arms, lifting his weight off her body and withdrawing. She lay still, waiting, and was surprised when he moved down her body, his hands parting her thighs again, his tongue probing her secret place, warm and soft against the tender flesh. Then he lifted himself back over her and lowered his head for a kiss, sharing the seed he had spilled in her and the blood of her maidenhead. She tasted it, salt and sour but sweet nonetheless, and smiled. Tom smiled in reply, then lay down beside her and pulled a blanket across to cover them, holding her close against his chest, his lips against her hair.

  ‘Sleep for a while now,’ he said softly. ‘Then I’ll take you home.’

  Still floating, still drifting in the aftermath, she gave herself up to the drowsiness and slept.

  When she woke, the fire was almost out, embers pulsing, a small blue flame here and there amongst the remains of the logs and the ash, and the night was cold. Tom was no longer lying beside her. She turned onto her belly to look for him and saw him sitting, fully dressed, close to the fire, watching her.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘We should go.’

  She nodded and he handed her her clothes, still watching her as she stood up to dress, but she was not ashamed of her nakedness in front of him now. When she was ready he stamped out the fire and took her hand, and together they left the Grove and wove through the trees towards the living world. The streets were still busy despite the hour, noise and light spilling from the stews and the taverns, whores and drunkards in the street. She saw them with different eyes that understood the pleasures that they sought. She was one of them now, a sinner too, and her whole being vibrated with connection to it
all.

  They walked slowly and she was conscious of a new soreness between her legs as she moved. But the ache spoke of pleasure and she did not mind it. She moved closer in beside her brother, tightening her grip on his arm, and he smiled down at her in the dark. A new love for him filled her, forbidden and delicious, and Nick was forgotten: at this moment she wanted only Tom. Neither of them spoke as they walked, connected by the closeness of their bodies and the ritual they had shared; there was nothing more to say and when they reached Nick’s house, too soon, Tom took his leave of her with a peck to one cheek and a simple bow. She looked for him for a long time after he disappeared into the darkness, feelings she couldn’t name or understand vying for attention in her body, her thoughts drifting and uncertain. Then she slipped silently into the house and crept without a sound to her bed in the newly cleaned-out attic.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Summer Seeming Lust

  At the playhouse, she took her sewing to the topmost gallery so she might watch the rehearsal unnoticed as she stitched. The sky stretched pale grey and damp above the roof, and a weak sun glimmered through in patches, teasing with an offer of warmer, brighter days to come. She lifted her face to the light, the cool air soft against her skin. It was her favourite part of the theatre, this close to the gods, so high above the drama of below and beyond its reach to touch her.

  Looking down, she saw the players were in serious discussion: Will, chin in hand, considering; John waiting with intense attention for direction. He seemed recovered today, subdued and calm, but she had seen a new mistrust of her in his sidelong looks which frightened her, as if he had divined her new closeness to Tom and the magic they had wrought together, seeing the witch in them both. Perhaps the boy was right and her brother had bewitched him after all: Tom’s lusts and knowledge were beyond her skill to understand.

  She watched the players for a while with half her thoughts, her gaze flicking back and forth from the stage to the fabric in her hands, the needle deftly marking out the stitches, until a footstep behind her made her turn in surprise – the top gallery had always been her preserve: no one else had ever disturbed her here. It was Nick, and she smiled in delighted surprise, an automatic hand smoothing back her hair, her back straightening. He returned the smile.

  ‘May I?’ He gestured to the bench beside her.

  ‘Of course.’

  He stepped over the bench and sat himself down. ‘’Tis strange but I’ve never sat up here before,’ he said, looking around. ‘I can see why you like it.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s peaceful, and I like to be so close to the sky.’

  ‘I’m disturbing your peace?’ he asked. ‘I can go if you’d rather be alone. I just saw you here, and …’ He made a move as if to stand and she answered hastily.

  ‘I can think of no one better to share the peace with me.’

  He smiled then and settled back into his seat. ‘I wondered if you would read with me – there are lines I need to practise and John is busy.’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ she said, placing her sewing on the bench beside her and reaching for the pages he held out for her. His finger marked the place on the page and their fingertips brushed as she took it from him. She was aware of the flush rising over the skin of her neck, nerves colouring her breathing, and she kept her gaze lowered to the words he had shown her, but for a heartbeat neither of them moved, the contact unbroken till she slid the pages away from him and held them tightly. Her eyes were fixed on the written words before her, though they held no meaning, all her thoughts wrapped in the presence of the man at her side.

  ‘From there,’ he said softly.

  She nodded, struggling to bring the small writing into focus.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  She took a deep breath and began, the words tumbling out too fast, stumbling.

  ‘How now, my lord! Why do you keep alone…’

  ‘Slow down,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to be nervous.’

  She risked a glance towards him. He was regarding her with a smile that she could not read, and the flush deepened across her neck and cheeks; she was making a fool of herself.

  ‘Try again,’ he said gently. ‘Take your time … It’s harder than it seems, is it not?’

  She nodded, grateful for his kindness, but her face still burned and her mouth was dry and hot.

  ‘How now, my lord! Why do you keep alone …’ she read, raising her eyes to him for a moment of question.

  ‘That’s good, go on.’ He nodded, smiling his encouragement.

  Heartened, she found the place on the page again and read on.

  ‘Of sorriest fancies your companions making,

  Using those thoughts which should indeed have died

  With them they think on? Things without all remedy

  Should be without regard: what’s done is done.’

  At the end of the speech she looked at him once more for his approval – she had heard John’s delivery in her head as she spoke, and her own voice had sounded weak to her in comparison. Nick was regarding her closely and his gaze was lit with surprise and admiration. She waited for him to speak, aware of the greenness of his eyes, the flecks of red in his beard, the straightness of his teeth, but he was silent, watching her.

  ‘It is your line, sir,’ she whispered.

  His lips curled into a smile and he nodded, as though to call his thoughts back to him. ‘Yes, it is. I … Forgive me. Give me the last line again.’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ she said.

  ‘We have scorched the snake, not killed it …’ he said, and with the words he became another man for her, transforming himself, his expression changing, the timbre of his voice, the way he held himself. She was in awe of this skill of a player to inhabit another, and bring a new soul into life. She listened, rapt, forgetting herself as the Lady, overwhelmed to be so close to a king.

  ‘Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,

  Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,

  Can touch him further.’

  He stopped and turned to her, still Macbeth for a moment, until his eyes met hers and he became Nick again and laughed.

  ‘Your line,’ he said.

  She cursed herself for a fool, dropping her gaze to the page again, searching desperately for the line. ‘I’m so sorry … I just … I couldn’t help but just watch you …’ she mumbled, but she could not find the place on the page however hard she searched, the written words seeming to bear no relation to the speech she had just heard.

  Nick placed a hand on her wrist and she swung her head to look at him, startled by his touch. ‘Sarah?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter? Do I frighten you so much?’

  She swallowed and shook her head, dropping her eyes away and down, hating herself for her foolishness. How could he want her now, after this? Why would any man want her? There was a silence and the weight of his hand on her wrist seemed an unbearable load, but she could not bring herself to move it away from his touch. Then he brought his other hand to tuck his fingers under her chin and tilt her face towards him.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said softly.

  Reluctantly but unable to disobey, she turned her eyes to meet his. He searched her face and she wondered what he saw there, if he understood her need and her distress. Tears began to rise and she slid her eyes away from his though she knew he would see them anyway.

  Gently, he wiped away the tears, tracing the line of them across her cheek with his thumb, bringing it to rest finally against the centre of her lower lip. She drew in a sharp breath of shock and very slowly lifted her gaze to meet his once again. The light in his eyes had changed: they were darker, the laughter gone, and she could see more of Macbeth in him now, a hunger and a lust. She remembered her dream and her breasts prickled in the hope of his touch. Dragging his thumb across her lip, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, sliding one hand behind her head to cradle it, the other hand against her back. She moved with him and into him, a
nd all she wanted was more of him, to merge with him as one. Then, too soon, he drew back, sliding his hands down her arms to grasp her fingers. They regarded each other in surprise. She could see the doubt now in his eyes, the fear of taking a new and unknown path.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I did not mean to take advantage …’

  ‘I did not want you to stop.’ All her nervousness was forgotten now. He had kissed her, wanted her as a woman, and he had no memory of her foolishness. A power suffused her, a knowledge of its rightness, its perfection – the spirits she had called with Tom had willed this union, this love, and soon it would be fulfilled.

  A shout of laughter from the stage broke the connection between them, Nick’s attention turning at the noise, drawing him back to the playhouse. But her fingers remained in his and she waited patiently for his thoughts to return. After a moment, his eyes passed back to her and he smiled. ‘I should go down,’ he said.

  ‘We didn’t finish reading your lines.’

  ‘No matter. Later. We can read them later. At home.’

  She nodded, returning his smile, and then he lifted her hands and brushed his lips against her fingers, as he had in the dream. Briefly, she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, his gaze was still intent on her face. But the flicker of his doubt remained beneath the smile and she understood that she had not completely won him yet.

  ‘Till later then,’ she said, and slid her hands free of his fingers.

  He stood up with reluctance, still watching her. Then he turned and walked away and her gaze followed his retreating back until she could see him no more.

  Later, after the afternoon performance, the men went to the King’s Head on the High Street, where the food was good. Tom was the last to arrive, having tarried to take leave of his sister, and the only spare stool at the table was the one next to John. He hesitated, waiting for John to look up and realise, but the boy was intent on the talk that was passing across the table. Tom watched for a while, standing on the outside looking in.