But serving Elizabeth would at least help me to escape the unwanted attentions of my suitor, Marcus Dent, whose fits of temper and reputation for cruelty frightened me. Not only was he far older than me, but he was also the local witchfinder, which made it both ironic and desperately uncomfortable that he should have fixed his interest on me as a possible bride. Though Marcus had travelled to Germany that spring, I knew he would want to see me on his return. And he was not a man who could easily be rejected.
Much to my father’s relief, the Lady Elizabeth spoke of how my long-dead mother, Catherine Canley, had been kind to her at court after Anne Boleyn had been executed, and gestured me to step forward.
Standing by the crumbling fireplace with a mildewed book in her hand – I later learned that she had been allowed to bring none of her own books to this prison – the young Lady Elizabeth considered me in silence.
I curtseyed, waiting for her verdict. It was hard not to feel uncomfortable under the princess’s penetrating stare. Had I forgotten to lace up my gown? Or perhaps my best cap was on askew?
‘I shall take the daughter for the mother’s sake,’ the princess decided, and signalled me to rise from my curtsey, as regally as though she were the Queen herself.
Soon after I arrived at Woodstock, I tried to influence Elizabeth into sending me home. All my life, I had been able to persuade others to do my bidding with only the power of my voice, sending my brother to steal sweetmeats from the cook’s pantry for us to gorge on, or persuading my nurse to bark like a dog to amuse me in an idle hour. It was a gift, my aunt had said, that could become a power if strengthened by witchcraft. Yet however many spells I tried on the Lady Elizabeth, from a simple charm muttered behind her back to a ritual incantation with candles and a black mirror, it was no use. My power had no effect on the princess, and I had a good idea why.
My aunt had told me once that a witch is often proof against another witch’s spells, which is one of the mysteries of witchcraft and nature’s way of limiting a witch’s power in this universe. I did not believe that the Lady Elizabeth was a witch. She showed none of the signs of it, though she had a power of sorts – I knew that from her face alone. But her mother, the executed Queen Anne, had been a powerful witch to the end, everyone was agreed on that. And it seemed this latent power from her mother’s magick was what prevented me from influencing her, even though the gift lay dormant in the young princess.
So it was that I found myself put into service at Woodstock and was unable to magick my way out of it. Much of the work was drearily menial: darning holes in the Lady Elizabeth’s stockings, washing out her underclothes, even fetching and carrying her food. Some days were more entertaining though, such as when she talked of her life at court, or played word games in the evenings. When the sun was not too hot, we were even permitted to take rambling walks about the boundaries of the ancient estate, listening to the distant shrieks of peacocks, once bred there as ornamental birds, now living wild amidst the tumbledown buildings.
Elizabeth was never allowed to forget that she was a prisoner though. A guard would accompany her everywhere, even out in the summer sunshine – keeping his distance out of respect for her rank but always watchful.
‘I have done nothing to merit my imprisonment here,’ the Lady Elizabeth complained bitterly to me one day, having been refused permission yet again to send for books from her library at Hatfield. ‘Nothing – do you hear me? Yes, that fool Wyatt led a rebellion against my sister the Queen, and it was rumoured that I had agreed to take the throne if his rebels were successful. But it is all lies! There is no proof whatsoever. No letters exist with my signature on them that might confirm my involvement, and Wyatt himself admitted on the scaffold that I was innocent. Yet still I am held against my will in this dark, gloomy ruin, where I shall probably die of a fever – or some poison administered by my enemies!’
‘Hush, my lady,’ Blanche Parry warned her, and hurried to the door to make sure no one was listening. ‘You must say nothing that could be taken for treason. That is what they watch for.’
Frustrated, Elizabeth scratched out these words on her chamber window:
Much suspected of me,
Nothing proved can be:
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner
Elizabeth was a difficult mistress to serve, especially in my first weeks as her maid. Sometimes she would toss a heavy book at my head for not fetching her meals quickly enough, or pinch my arm cruelly if I dozed off during Holy Mass – which took place every day at Woodstock, and often very early in the morning. Yet the princess often overlooked faults in her servants that another mistress might have punished severely.
I discovered this when I had been at Woodstock only a week.
Blanche Parry came across me secretly reading one of my aunt’s books on witchcraft, and dragged me before the princess.
I was terrified. I had been caught with a forbidden book on the dark arts in my hand. I fell on my knees, expecting to be condemned as a witch there and then.
Instead, to my astonishment and huge relief, the Lady Elizabeth had asked me searching questions on the craft: which spells and rituals I had performed, and whether I possessed any special magickal powers. She seemed a little disappointed when I admitted to being only a novice, but asked instead to meet my aunt, who had been training me in the ways of witchcraft for the past few years.
‘For there is much in the world of darkness that could bring me light in this prison,’ the princess had whispered in my ear.
That was how our sabats at each full moon had begun, with the two of us creeping out to meet my aunt in the ruined palace. There we would light the four candles and sit within a circle to work out spells. We did not perform dark magicks though, for my aunt followed the path of the hearth fire and refused to work any of the unmentionable spells that are found in the charmbooks of dark witches. But she allowed the Lady Elizabeth to learn a harmless spell of white magick – to extinguish and relight the candles in our circle, one by one – and this she was able to do with a little practice.
My aunt clapped as Elizabeth relit the last candle, giving the princess one of her rare smiles. ‘You have a gift, though I cannot be sure how strong it is,’ she told Elizabeth. ‘Only remember your mother and beware how you use it. Witches work best alone and in darkness. To be a witch in the light is to invite enemies.’
It was a strange, isolated life at Woodstock. But as I listened to Elizabeth’s whispered tales of how potential Catholic husbands had been presented to her regularly since her sister had ascended the throne, I felt an even greater relief that I was beyond the reach of my own persistent suitor, Marcus Dent.
It seemed almost comical that I should have attracted a man like Marcus, whose passion in life was exposing and executing witches. Marcus was about thirty years of age, a wealthy and influential man in Oxfordshire with a vast library of books. He was always travelling abroad, searching for arcane tomes on the subject of witchcraft. Indeed, I am sure that if Marcus had been at home more often, rather than off hunting books and witches in far-off countries like Germany, I would have been forced into matrimony with him at the age of fourteen when he first began to take a special interest in me. For although my father hated and feared the witchfinder, who had been known to laugh out loud at the sight of proven witches twitching on the gallows, I suspected he did not wish to cross Marcus either.
I had watched Marcus Dent preach to an eager crowd once, while a young witch was led out from the courthouse to the gallows, barely fifteen years of age, thin as a cat in her white cotton shift, her face terrified and streaked with tears. Marcus had called on God for her damned soul to be cast into the smouldering pits of Hell, then encouraged the crowd to shower the poor girl with rotten fruit and stinking cabbage as she shivered, waiting for the noose to be placed about her neck, not even allowed the dignity of a hood to conceal her last throes of agony from the crowd. I had seen men hanged as thieves or murderers before, but this was my first experience of a woman�
�s execution. I turned away in horror when the girl’s body twisted and rocked, her legs flailing helplessly as the rope strangled her. But Marcus strolled over afterwards to check that she was dead, then coolly asked the executioner to cut off a few locks of her hair as a trophy for his collection. Watching secretly from under my hood, it was hard not to imagine the witchfinder triumphing over my own corpse one day.
I knew Marcus Dent was desperate for an heir. His first two wives had died horribly in childbirth, and their poor babies with them. But I had no intention of becoming dead wife number three. A witchfinder for a husband would be a very poor choice indeed for a young witch. For even if I did not die giving birth to Marcus’s child, I would almost certainly dangle at the end of a noose myself if he ever discovered my powers.
Much to my relief though, the witchfinder did not ride over to visit me at Woodstock, no doubt too busy hunting witches to pursue his hopes of matrimony. Indeed, it was such a quiet life we led there, at times I almost forgot my aunt’s vision of approaching danger.
One scorching day in the month of July, the Lady Elizabeth decided we should take a walk about the grounds of the estate. She had been unwell for several weeks, barely able to rise from her bed. This was a sickness she had suffered since a child, according to Blanche Parry, which struck hardest when her nerves were stretched to their limit. So when at last Elizabeth felt strong enough to leave her bedchamber, she insisted that we escape the confines of the lodge and take a walk around the boundary of Woodstock.
It was a sunny morning, and the birds were singing gloriously in the leafy green trees about the estate. Elizabeth stood at the window, chafing to be out in the fresh air.
‘You will make yourself unwell again,’ Blanche Parry warned her, wrapping a cotton neckerchief about the princess’s exposed throat. ‘The sun is too strong today, and there are stinging cattle flies everywhere.’
‘Oh, don’t fuss!’ Elizabeth snapped irritably. ‘You may stay here, if that’s your wish, and I shall take only Meg. We do not need your company if you are going to be a sour-faced puss.’
‘Now, my lady,’ Blanche replied comfortably, ‘you’re talking nonsense now, and you know it. Young Meg is not a suitable companion for a walk in the countryside. Would she know what to do if you took a tumble down a rabbit-hole, or if a great cow tried to attack you?’
‘It is you who is talking nonsense. Of course she knows such things. She is a country girl.’ Elizabeth looked at me sharply. ‘Are you not, Meg?’
I curtseyed low to the princess, nodding my agreement without speaking. I had learned early on not to get involved in these arguments, for I knew better than to waste my time trying to influence the princess.
Blanche Parry was less of a problem, thankfully. She would slap me and speak harshly behind Elizabeth’s back, cursing what she called my ‘evil eye’. For that, I sometimes took my revenge.
I would make sure Blanche was a little clumsier than usual, once spilling the bowl of heated water for the princess’s morning ablutions. Another time, Blanche tripped over some invisible obstacle, the clean linen in her arms ending up on the dirty rushes, much to Elizabeth’s annoyance.
Mischievous rather than harmful, these little tricks made Blanche Parry’s cruelty easier to bear.
That day, we took a track we did not commonly follow, for it was narrow and overgrown in places, and we crossed the river at a shallow fording-place downstream from the palace, leaving our shoes and skirts damp.
Elizabeth was in a difficult mood, bored and restless, and determined to make her guard sweat. A thick-set man, he was approaching his middle years, and none too athletic. Her small mouth pursed in a tight smile, Elizabeth encouraged us to walk at a brisk pace, leaving the poor man to puff after the three of us in the hot sunshine, his heavy leather jerkin weighing him down.
Despite our good speed, it was late morning before we came back round to the River Glyme, which sank at that point to a swift but shallow race across a rocky bed, the marshy banks on either side thick with clustered brown rushes and the sunny yellow flags of irises.
Elizabeth paused to look back over her shoulder, her expression calculating.
The guard was nowhere in sight, perhaps having mistaken the path we had taken on descending the slope, and thinking we were making for the old stone bridge across the river. Indeed, we could see the bridge from the riverbank, not five minutes’ walk upstream.
Elizabeth clapped her hands in delight. ‘We lost him!’
‘Sir Bedingfield will find us at fault for this, my lady,’ Blanche Parry warned her without any heat, and did not bother to restrain a chuckle. ‘Still, it is good to walk without a spy constantly on watch.’
‘It is good indeed,’ Elizabeth agreed with a gurgle of laughter, and whirled in a circle, spinning out her skirts so that the grasses on either side of the path trembled, sending up bees and butterflies above our heads.
Then the princess darted forward to the water’s edge, slim and graceful in her simple gown. The path across the river was made of stepping stones, some set further apart than others, and it took some skill to be able to cross without a foot or a hem slipping into the water.
‘The water is a little high for fording, my lady.’ Her lady-in-waiting stood uncertain on the bank, eyeing the swirl of water about the rocks. ‘If we keep walking, the bridge is not far. See?’
‘But the bridge is not as much of a challenge,’ Elizabeth countered, and set her foot experimentally on the first stepping stone. It rocked slightly, unsteady on its glistening bed of pebbles. Blanche tut-tutted at her back, though she rarely tried to curb Elizabeth’s wild behaviour, and her charge tossed her head defiantly. ‘You take the bridge then, old fusspot. Meg and I will cross here. Won’t we, Meg?’
I looked at the river dubiously. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Don’t forget you have not been well, my lady,’ Blanche reminded her, but it was clear from her tone that she was resigned to Elizabeth using the stepping stones. ‘If you should miss your footing—’
‘Then I shall get wet, and you may crow about it all the way back to the house.’
Without waiting for further arguments, Elizabeth began to hop from stone to stone, light as a butterfly across the sunlit water. Blanche and I both watched her progress in silent apprehension, afraid the princess would slip, or turn her ankle and be hurt.
She had almost reached the other side when one of the stones wobbled furiously beneath her, and Elizabeth cried out, casting her arms wide for balance. A tiny glint of light spun away like a jewelled bee and fell with a splash into the middle of the river.
‘Oh no! My ring!’
Elizabeth reached the other bank and jumped onto the grass, turning back with a horrified expression. She raised her eyes from the dazzling water to our faces.
‘I must get it back. My father gave it to me.’
Blanche Parry made an anxious noise under her breath, and turned to stare at me.
I stared back. ‘But it fell right in the middle,’ I pointed out resentfully. ‘I shall be soaked!’
She gave me a sturdy push towards the first stepping stone. ‘Better you than me.’
Elizabeth, watching this exchange but perhaps unable to hear us above the noisy rushing of the current, called out, ‘Be careful, Meg. The water is deep there.’
As if I couldn’t see that with my own eyes!
Gingerly, I placed my foot on the first stepping stone, and was not reassured when it wobbled violently beneath me. Though it mattered little if I slipped now and got my feet wet; I would soon be soaked to the skin, retrieving the ring for her. So I ignored the perilous movement below my foot and stepped onto the next stone, then the next, until I stood at the heart of the river, gazing out across the bright water.
There was nothing for it but to walk through the water, cold or not. The sun beat down on my back as I lowered my foot into the swift current, gasping with shock. I moved my other foot and sank fully into the river. The pebbles, slippery w
ith green weed, grated under my thin-soled shoes. Now the hem of my best gown was sodden with water, even held up above my ankles.
Reaching the spot where I guessed the gold ring must have fallen, I whispered, ‘Gold from the earth, no longer hide your light but show yourself.’
At first I thought nothing was going to happen. Then there was a rippling shift at the bottom of the river, and a sudden glint of gold as the ring tugged itself free of the muddy silt.
I smiled, exultant that my simple summoning spell had worked. But there was still a problem. To reach down for the ring would mean relinquishing my hold on one side of my skirts, unless I was to tuck them up over my belt.
If anyone should happen along and catch me in such an indecorous position . . .
Well, there was no choice for it. I hooked my skirts up into my belt and bent forward, hot-faced and embarrassed, my soaked woollen stockings on show.
The golden ring lay glinting at the bottom. As I straightened up, the ring in my hand, I lost my balance and fell backwards into the water.
For a moment, I could do nothing but sit and gasp, my legs and behind thoroughly immersed in cold water, then I struggled back to my feet, dripping and close to tears.
But at least I had the Lady Elizabeth’s ring.
That was when I looked up and realized we were no longer alone at the river.
Shame flooded my cheeks.
Three figures were staring down at me from the stone bridge. It was too far for me to be able to see them properly, but I knew they had seen me and were no doubt enjoying the spectacle immensely: a girl standing in the middle of the river, gown tucked almost up to her waist and dripping with weeds.
One of the strangers was fully armoured and on horseback. Another lay in an elaborate, covered horse litter which the third man was driving, this one standing up to see me better and gesturing insolently with his long-handled whip.
Witchstruck Page 2
