Witchborn

by Nicholas Bowling

Alyce watched the rest of the players as she sewed, and had to admit that she preferred Solomon’s performance to all of the others’ – there was something sensitive and softly spoken about his character that was pleasing to watch and listen to amidst the thrusting and booming of the older men. Since none of the actors was in costume, it was some time before she understood the reason: Solomon was playing a female role. She thought that he might overstate the woman’s femininity for comic effect – all blushing and swooning – but on the whole his portrayal was very measured.

  When Alyce was finished, Master Adams halted the scene and came over to inspect her work.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he said, holding the stitching on the cloak up to his eye and sniffing. ‘And the others?’

  ‘The others?’ said Alyce.

  ‘The other costumes! Zounds, we have three chests full of them, boy!’ He gestured to two more boxes at the corner of the stage. ‘They all need some attention. And when you’ve finished with them, you can have a look at the trapdoor. Something keeps sticking when we open the gates of Hell.’

  Alyce began sorting through the piles of cloaks, hats, shirts, breeches and underclothes. Each box released the sweet and savoury smell of old sweat, making her wonder quite how long it had been since any of the costumes had been washed.

  The repairs were going to take hours. Days, even. She hadn’t really considered the implications of being accepted into the troupe, beyond being able to stay longer at the palace. Of course she would be expected to work.

  But then, as her fingers found their rhythm with needle and thread, she wondered if she would be quite happy if she really did join Sussex’s Men. Permanently. Perhaps she should just escape all of this intrigue. She could get away from London, and she could lose the witchfinders, lose Mary; she would have more time to learn her Craft; and she would be able to spend more time with Solomon.

  She pricked her thumb with the needle, and cursed. A tiny, round jewel of blood appeared on her skin. How had that last thought sneaked in there? Not only that – it had sneaked in and outshone the others.

  She glanced at Solomon, his brow furrowed, silently mouthing his lines, then shook her head and went back to darning his tights.

  Alyce worked until her joints were sore and her eyes ached. She had been concentrating so hard, she barely recognized the transformation that the Great Hall had undergone as the daylight had faded.

  While the actors rehearsed, the dining tables had been removed by servants, and rows of benches placed around three sides of the hall. In the middle of the floor, directly in front of the stage, was a set of perhaps a dozen larger chairs, surrounding a single, ornately decorated throne.

  The prop tree had been manoeuvred into the corner of the stage, and a noose had been hung from one of its branches – obviously a key feature of the play that was about to be performed. Two painted gilt screens had been brought in too, to cover the entrances to the buttery, and the three enormous candle wheels that hung from the ceiling now flooded the boards with light. Lanterns had also been placed around the edges of the stage, leaving the rest of the hall in shadow. The space seemed to hum with an uncanny energy that felt a lot like sorcery.

  When the black windows of the Great Hall showed only the reflection of the lights within, Master Adams summoned the company to the area behind the screens. Their number had grown by another six men – four players and two musicians – but from listening to his agitated muttering, it seemed one man, Master Gasper, was still missing.

  ‘Then we choose another play . . .’ The suggestion came from Master Gavell, he of the unwashed breeches.

  ‘We cannot,’ hissed Master Adams. ‘Her Majesty specifically requested The Shameful Kiss.’

  Alyce’s ears pricked up. The Queen was definitely going to be in the audience, then. And if she was there, perhaps Doctor Dee would come with her.

  For a moment, she again had the idea of approaching Elizabeth, informing her of Doctor Dee’s treachery and of Mary’s plot. Then, once the Doctor was imprisoned, she could ask him whatever she wanted.

  Under torture, maybe.

  She shivered, suddenly aware of how black her thoughts had become.

  Servants brought the players bread, cheese and cold meats from the kitchens, and Adams continued to argue with Gavell. From beyond the screens, Alyce could hear the hall filling with courtiers returning from their own suppers, and from the sounds of things they were all very well lubricated with wine.

  ‘When I find that jackanape . . .’ Adams’ fists had turned white; the script he held was on the verge of disintegrating. ‘No doubt he is lying drunk in a ditch somewhere.’

  Another actor, Master Lyons, who had been sitting in a corner of the buttery studying his dinner with great concentration, suddenly threw his arms in the air and rocked back on his stool. Alyce had been watching him all afternoon. When he was off stage, he twitched and muttered constantly. He seemed quite mad.

  ‘I shall take Gasper’s parts! I can play Furio, and the servants. I know the lines. I know all your lines. In fact, you can all go home!’ He laughed and clapped.

  ‘You cannot play the servants, Master Lyons,’ said Adams desperately, ‘because then we have nobody to play the Devil.’

  ‘Ah, exactly, no body,’ said Lyons, wagging his finger. ‘But that is all you need. A body. The Devil has no lines to speak, I’m sure we can simply find a man to stand in for him on stage.’

  Adams thought for a moment.

  ‘He is right,’ Gavell intoned, nodding furiously and causing his several chins to bulge.

  The company leader took a deep breath, and looked around the players assembled backstage, many of whom were now beginning to put on their attire.

  Alyce froze when his gaze came to rest on her.

  ‘You, boy,’ he barked. ‘The Shameful Kiss, do you know it?’

  ‘Worcester’s Men never performed it.’

  ‘No matter.’ Adams waved his hand dismissively. ‘You will do. You certainly have an impish look about you. I think you will make a very fine Devil.’

  ‘But Master Adams,’ Alyce began to protest, ‘I am no player at all . . .’ She had proven that much in Vitali’s performance, and was happy never to set foot on a stage again in her life.

  ‘You won’t have to do any playing,’ he said. That was what Vitali had said too. ‘You wear the costume, we see you come out of the trapdoor, Master Harper will make his speech, we have the kiss, you disappear again. You have until Act Two to look at the script, anyway.’

  This didn’t feel right. Suppose Doctor Dee was in the audience? The blood in Alyce’s veins began to crawl like warm treacle.

  ‘I really don’t—’

  There was a chorus of approval from the other players. Some even came over and slapped her on the back by way of encouragement. Everyone agreed with Master Adams. Everyone, that was, apart from Solomon, who was twisting his ruff in his fingers and pretending he hadn’t heard any part of the discussion.

  ‘Well, if you really think I won’t ruin the whole play . . .’ Alyce said.

  But the matter was settled. The players went back to eating and preparing their costumes. When Master Lyons presented her with her own, she suddenly realized that there was no way she could get down to her small clothes in front of the company. She took herself off to the pantry to get changed, which in itself looked slightly suspicious.

  The costume consisted of the same cloak that she had spent much of the afternoon mending, a blood-red doublet and breeches, and a bizarre, tight-fitting cap fringed with crimson and black feathers. It smelt bad when it was in her arms, but even worse when she was actually wearing it, the warmth and movement of her body releasing all of its hidden vapours. The material also felt slightly damp, as though it had never properly dried out after Master Lyons had finished exerting himself on the stage.

  When she finally put on the ridiculous curly slippers and waddled back through to the buttery, the rest of the company crossed themselves. Somebody mu
ttered a prayer. They really were superstitious. As far as Alyce was concerned the Devil was just a story that was told among the villagers in Fordham. It seemed so strange that Alyce, her mother, and their way of life had been woven into that story, without even knowing or believing it. Strange, and unfair too.

  But even here in the city, at Court, the Devil was something all men feared. Even when he was as stupidly dressed as Alyce was. All men apart from Solomon, of course, who was the only one smiling. He was trying not to look at her as he straightened the sleeves on his gown, his face now caked in a woman’s make-up, his lips heavily rouged.

  Master Adams eventually came over and tutted. ‘You are very slight, even for a boy. Find him a belt, somebody!’ One of the other players obliged. Alyce looped it around her waist, but even at its tightest, the breeches still felt as though they slipped with every step.

  ‘You’ll have to do,’ said Adams with a sigh. Then he turned, composed himself, and went out in front of the screens.

  The crowd in the Great Hall suddenly fell eerily quiet. There was a great deal of rustling, before the silence was finally punctuated by a woman’s voice. Master Adams was speaking too, but Alyce could not hear what either of them were saying.

  The players were all listening intently too. Alyce shuffled over to where Solomon was standing.

  ‘It’s the Queen,’ he whispered, noticing her at his elbow. ‘Adams is asking for her indulgence before the play begins.’

  ‘Indulgence? Forgiveness, you mean,’ said Alyce. ‘Look at me. This isn’t going to work.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. Just stand in the middle of the stage and look devilish. You can do that.’ He squeezed her shoulder.

  When the exchange out front seemed to have ended, the company’s two musicians began playing recorders, accompanied by one of the actors on a drum. Adams then gave a speech of introduction, and before Alyce could gather her thoughts, Master Lyons had leapt on to the stage, his words trilling and ringing bright and clear from his lips. The play had begun.

  ‘When are you on?’ Alyce hissed in Solomon’s ear. He didn’t reply. He seemed to be lost in a moment of intense concentration. When she jabbed him in the ribs with a finger, he simply handed her his script, and then with strange, slow grace, proceeded out in front of the audience in his woman’s weeds.

  He stayed out there for what seemed like hours. Alyce listened to the first act feeling a little ill-at-ease. Not frightened or nervous, exactly, but wobbly, not quite together.

  As far as she could make out, The Shameful Kiss centred around a wicked stepmother (Solomon’s part), who had married a wealthy widower and was intent on getting her hands on his fortune. She was also trying to do away with his children, and had resolved to go to grisly lengths to remove anyone who stood in the way of her inheritance. It wasn’t until just before the end of Act One that Alyce suddenly realized exactly what was implied: Solomon was playing a witch. A witch. It was too ridiculous for words.

  As Act Two opened, Master Lyons popped up in front of her with a pot of greasepaint, and before Alyce could protest, he had smeared a pair of thick black eyebrows and a pointed beard and moustache on her face to complete her transformation.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said under his breath, pointing to a line in the script on the following page:Devil intrat. ‘Good luck!’ His grin seemed too big for his face; unsettling rather than reassuring.

  Immediately in front of the buttery’s doorway was a very small flight of wooden steps that led backstage. Master Lyons beckoned her over, but instead of ascending to the stage, he pointed at the floor, where there was just enough space for a grown man to crawl beneath the floorboards. Alyce took one more look at the script to memorize her cue, then squatted down on her haunches, and inched her way awkwardly into the darkness.

  The trapdoor could be seen as a thin square of light up ahead. The other actors’ feet thundered overhead, dislodging small clouds of dust from between the boards and sending them down on to her nose. The thumping of her heart seemed to match them beat for beat.

  Solomon’s words rang through the Great Hall, a spell, in Latin: Nunc, per vota nostra, diabolus ipse surgat!

  That was her cue.

  Alyce pushed on the trapdoor. It didn’t budge. Master Adams’ words floated back to her, too late: Something keeps sticking when we open the gates of Hell.

  There was silence from the hall. She could hear Solomon’s feet shuffling with embarrassment. She tried again. Nothing. It was as though it were nailed shut.

  Then, gradually, a low swell of coughing and muttering began to arise from the audience. Alyce thought of the Queen, shifting restlessly in her throne, thought of the shame she was bringing upon the whole company, upon Solomon, standing alone on the stage bearing the brunt of the Court’s displeasure.

  Straining with her whole back against the trapdoor, something finally gave way. It fell noisily, clumsily open. Somebody out in the hall sniggered. Alyce began to panic, the hot prickle of humiliation running up and down her backbone. Poor Solomon didn’t deserve this.

  She heaved herself out of the hole in the stage with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn’t much in the circumstances, and stood looking out at the fidgeting audience. Set back from the lights of the stage, she could hardly see any of their faces – what she could see, though, was the dark shape of the raised dais in the centre of the hall, and the shimmer of silks and jewels where the Queen sat on her throne, watching the debacle unfold. Alyce’s heart felt like a clenched fist.

  Solomon was standing to her left, perfectly still. She turned to face him. At first she thought he wasn’t going to say anything, that her entrance had brought the play to a grinding halt.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. Then he opened his bright red lips and in his falsetto woman’s voice he began his speech.

  ‘O fiend, conjured by black, forbidden arts,

  Look thou upon my work with baleful eye . . .’

  And she did. Her gaze never left him as he stalked the stage, verses pouring from his chest, bewitching her where she stood. She was aware of the spectators settling abruptly. They were just as transfixed as she was, apparently. All of the Great Hall seemed to hold its breath, tensed like the air moments before a thunderstorm.

  ‘. . .and twixt our lips the dev’lish pact is sealed.’

  Before she knew it, his speech was ended, his warm breath was upon her skin, and he was kissing her.

  She wanted to laugh – half from fear, half elation. Solomon, a young man, dressed as a witch, kissing her, a witch, dressed as a young man (dressed as the Devil). But even if there had not been an audience watching, she would not have laughed, because then she would have had to pull away from him, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. Instead she laughed inside, a laugh that rang through her whole body and made her glow.

  Solomon took a step backwards. The spell over the pair of them broke, and Alyce suddenly felt very exposed. There was silence, an oppressive stillness. It felt like no one in the audience had so much as blinked since she had appeared clumsily through the trapdoor.

  When she looked out at them, she saw why. It was nothing to do with her, or her entrance, or Solomon, or the kiss.

  Queen Elizabeth had left her throne and proceeded to the edge of the stage. Behind her, attendants wrung their hands and glanced nervously at each other. From this distance, Alyce was able to see the Queen’s face properly for the first time: thin, angular, unnaturally white. Sad too. Her melancholy eyes studied Alyce’s face in return, and, locked in that stare, she suddenly knew where she had seen the Queen before.

  Bedlam. It was the witchfinder who had come to take her from Bedlam on that freezing midwinter night, the night of her escape. Those cheeks had felt the sharpness of Alyce’s fingernails, once upon a time. Alyce took two steps backwards, all of her fears coming together in the form of this one woman. Solomon cleared his throat. The orange light of the lamps and the candles became colder.
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br />   No. Not now, thought Alyce. Not in front of all these people . . .

  That same luminous veil descended over her eyes and the voices returned, louder than ever. Formless black wisps crept through the hall, drifted over the stage, causing the screens and the lanterns to sway and rattle. One of the prop tree’s branches cracked and fell, and the spectators gasped in terror – all apart from the Queen, who calmly watched Alyce as the dead flocked to her.

  Alyce gritted her teeth and willed it all to stop, but the voices became deafening. Then she looked around the audience, at the men and women to whom she would never belong, and realized, with the feeling of some great burden being lifted from her chest, she didn’t need it to stop. Didn’t want it to stop. Perhaps it was because this had already happened three times before, or perhaps it was because she had been reading the Necronomicon, but the presence of the dead no longer frightened her. Intentionally or not, she had summoned them. And if they were here, they may as well make themselves useful.

  She exhaled, and her breath broke the storm. The candles and the lanterns went out, and the Great Hall was plunged into complete darkness.

  The Devil and her lover leapt through the chaos of the hall, shoved this way and that by panicking courtiers. Alyce pulled Solomon along by the sleeve of his dress, able to find her way through the rushing bodies and the overturned chairs thanks to the eerie luminescence that hadn’t yet drained from her vision.

  They slipped out of the crack in the hall’s great double doors and fell into the starlit courtyard.

  When they were at the entrance to the passageway, Solomon tugged his arm free and refused to go further.

  ‘Come on, Solly . . .’

  ‘Why did you just do that?’

  ‘I tried to tell you, I can’t control it!’

  That wasn’t entirely true any more, though.

  Solomon looked behind him. ‘But you can’t just run away from the Queen, Alyce. She’s going to kill us. Or Master Adams will, if she doesn’t.’

  ‘It was her, Solomon.’ She started off towards their chamber, and he reluctantly followed. ‘I knew I’d seen her before.’