Shadow of Night

by Deborah Harkness

  She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course we have cakes. They are in the new food cupboard on the landing, where the smell will not disturb anyone,” Françoise said, pointing in the direction of the stairs. “Last year you gave them wine, but I do not believe they require it tonight.”

  “I’ll go with you, Matt,” Henry volunteered. “I like a good song on Christmas Eve.”

  The appearance of Matthew and Henry downstairs was marked by a definite uptick in the choir’s volume. When the carolers came to a rather uneven finish, Matthew thanked them and passed out coins. Henry distributed the cakes, which led to many bows and a hushed “Thank you, my lord” as the news passed that this was the Earl of Northumberland. The carolers moved off to another house, following some mysterious order of precedence that they hoped would ensure them the best refreshments and payments.

  Soon I could no longer smother my yawns, and Henry and Gallowglass began to gather up their gloves and cloaks. Both were smiling like satisfied matchmakers when they headed for the door. Matthew joined me in bed, holding me until I fell asleep, humming carols and naming the city’s many bells as they sounded the hour.

  “There is St. Mary-le-Bow,” he said, listening to the sounds of the city. “And St. Katherine Cree.”

  “Is that St. Paul’s?” I asked as a prolonged clarion sounded.

  “No. The lightning that took off the steeple destroyed the bells, too,” he said. “That’s St. Saviour’s. We passed it on our way into town.” The rest of London’s churches caught up with Southwark’s cathedral. Finally a straggler finished with a discordant clang, the last sound I heard before sleep overtook me.

  In the middle of the night, I was awakened by conversation coming from Matthew’s study. I felt the bed, but he was no longer with me. The leather straps that held up the mattress squeaked and stretched as I jumped to the cold floor. I shivered and threw on a shawl before leaving the room.

  Judging by the pools of wax in the shallow candlestands, Matthew had been working for hours. Pierre was with him, standing next to the shelves built into a recess by the fireplace. He looked as though he’d been dragged backward through the Thames mud at low tide.

  “I’ve been all over the city with Gallowglass and his Irish friends,” Pierre murmured. “If the Scots know anything more about the schoolmaster, they will not divulge it, milord.”

  “What schoolmaster?” I stepped into the room. It was then I spotted the narrow door hidden in the wooden paneling.

  “I am sorry, madame. I did not mean to wake you.” Pierre’s dismay showed through the filth, and the stench that accompanied him made my eyes water.

  “It’s all right, Pierre. Go. I’ll find you later.” Matthew waited while his servant fled, shoes squelching. Matthew’s eyes drifted to the shadows by the fireplace.

  “The room that lies beyond that door wasn’t on your welcome tour,” I pointed out, going to his side. “What’s happened now?”

  “More news from Scotland. A jury sentenced a wizard named John Fian—a schoolmaster from Prestonpans—to death. While I was away, Gallowglass tried to find out what truth, if any, lies behind the wild accusations: worshipping Satan, dismembering dead bodies in a graveyard, transforming moles’ feet into pieces of silver so he was never without money, going to sea in a ship with the devil and Agnes Sampson to thwart the king’s policies.” Matthew tossed a paper onto the table in front of him. “So far as I can tell, Fian is one of what we used to call the tempestarii, and nothing more.”

  “A windwitch, or possibly a waterwitch,” I said, translating the unfamiliar term.

  “Yes,” Matthew agreed with a nod. “Fian augmented his teacher’s salary by causing thunderstorms during dry spells and early thaws when it looked as if the Scottish winter would never end. His fellow villagers adored him, by all accounts. Even Fian’s pupils had nothing but praise. Fian might have been a bit of a seer—he’s credited with foretelling people’s deaths, but that could have been something Kit cooked up to embellish the story for an English audience. He’s obsessed with a witch’s second sight, as you’ll remember.”

  “Witches are vulnerable to the shifting moods of our neighbors, Matthew. One minute we’re friends, the next we’re run out of town—or worse.”

  “What happened to Fian was definitely worse,” Matthew said grimly.

  “I can imagine,” I said with a shudder. If Fian had been tortured as Agnes Sampson had, he must have welcomed death. “What’s in that room?”

  Matthew considered telling me that it was a secret but wisely refrained. He stood. “It would be better if I showed you. Stay by me. It’s not yet dawn, and we can’t take a candle into the room for fear that someone will see it from outside. I don’t want you to trip.” I nodded mutely and took his hand.

  We stepped across the threshold into a long room with a row of windows barely larger than arrow slits tucked under the eaves. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted and gray shapes began to emerge from the gloom. A pair of old garden chairs woven from willow twigs stood across from each other, their backs curved forward. Low, battered benches were set out in two rows down the center of the room. Each bore a strange assortment of objects: books, papers, letters, hats, and clothes. From the right came a gleam of metal: swords, hilts up and points down. A pile of daggers rested on the floor nearby. There was a scratching sound, too, and a scurry of feet.

  “Rats.” Matthew’s voice was matter-of-fact, but I couldn’t help drawing my night rail tight against my legs. “Pierre and I do what we can, but it’s impossible to get rid of them entirely. They find all this paper irresistible.” He gestured up, and I noticed for the first time the bizarre festoons on the walls.

  I crept closer and peered at the garlands. Each one hung from a thin, twisted cord affixed to the plaster with a square-headed nail. The cord had then been threaded through the upper-left-hand corner of a series of documents. The knot in the end of the cord was slung back up and looped around the same nail, creating a wreath of paper.

  “One of the world’s first file cabinets. You say I keep too many secrets,” he said softly, reaching out and snagging one of the garlands. “You can add these to your reckoning.”

  “But there are thousands of them.” Surely not even a fifteen-hundredyear-old vampire could possess so many.

  “There are,” Matthew agreed. He watched as my eyes swept the room, taking in the archive he guarded. “We remember what other creatures want to forget, and that makes it possible for the Knights of Lazarus to protect those in our care. Some of the secrets go back to the reign of the queen’s grandfather. Most of the older files have already been moved to Sept-Tours for safekeeping.”

  “So many trails of paper,” I murmured, “and all of them ultimately lead back to you and the de Clermonts.” The room faded until I saw only the loops and swirls of the words unwinding into long, intertwined filaments. They formed a map of connections that linked subjects, authors, dates. There was something I needed to understand about these crisscrossing lines. . . .

  “I’ve been going through these papers since you fell asleep, looking for references to Fian. I thought that there might be mention of him here,” Matthew said, leading me back into his study, “something that might explain why his neighbors turned on him. There must be a pattern that will tell us why the humans are behaving this way.”

  “If you find it, my fellow historians will be eager to know. But understanding Fian’s case doesn’t guarantee you can prevent the same thing from happening to me.” The ticking muscle in Matthew’s jaw told me that my words found their target. “And I’m quite sure you didn’t delve into the matter this closely before.”

  “I’m no longer that man who turned a blind eye to all this suffering— and I don’t want to become him again.” Matthew pulled out his chair and dropped heavily into it. “There must be something I can do.”

  I gathered him in my arms. Even seated, Matthew was so tall that the top of his head hit my rib cage. He burrowed in
to me. He stilled, then drew slowly away, his eyes fixed on my abdomen.

  “Diana. You’re—” He stopped.

  “Pregnant. I thought so,” I said matter-of-factly. “My period’s been irregular ever since Juliette, so I wasn’t sure. I was sick on the way from Calais to Dover, but the seas were rough and that fish I had before we left was definitely dodgy.”

  He continued to stare at my belly. I rattled on nervously.

  “My high-school health teacher was right: You really can get pregnant the first time you have sex with a guy.” I’d done the math and was pretty sure conception had occurred during our wedding weekend.

  Still he was silent.

  “Say something, Matthew.”

  “It’s impossible.” He looked stunned.

  “Everything about us is impossible.” I lowered a trembling hand to my stomach.

  Matthew twined his fingers through mine and finally looked me in the eye. I was surprised by what I saw there: awe, pride, and a hint of panic. Then he smiled. It was an expression of complete joy.

  “What if I’m no good at being a parent?” I asked uncertainly. “You’ve been a father—you know what to do.”

  “You’re going to be a wonderful mother” was his prompt response. “All that children need is love, a grown-up to take responsibility for them, and a soft place to land.” Matthew moved our clasped hands over my belly in a gentle caress. “We’ll tackle the first two together. The last will be up to you. How are you feeling?”

  “A bit tired and queasy, physically. Emotionally, I don’t know where to begin.” I drew a shaky breath. “Is it normal to be frightened and fierce and tender all at once?”

  “Yes—and thrilled and anxious and sick with dread, too,” he said softly.

  “I know it’s ridiculous, but I keep worrying that my magic might hurt the baby, even though thousands of witches give birth every year.” But they aren’t married to vampires.

  “This isn’t a normal conception,” Matthew said, reading my mind. “Still, I don’t think you need to concern yourself.” A shadow moved through his eyes. I could practically see him adding one more worry to his list.

  “I don’t want to tell anyone. Not yet.” I thought of the room next door. “Can your life include one more secret—at least for a little while?”

  “Of course,” Matthew said promptly. “Your pregnancy won’t show for months. But Françoise and Pierre will know soon from your scent, if they don’t already, and so will Hancock and Gallowglass. Happily, vampires don’t usually ask personal questions.”

  I laughed softly. “It figures that I’ll be the one to give the secret away. You can’t possibly be any more protective, so no one is going to guess what we’re hiding based on your behavior.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” he said, smiling broadly. Matthew flexed his fingers over mine. It was a distinctly protective gesture.

  “If you keep touching me that way, people are going to figure it out pretty quickly,” I agreed drily, running my fingers along his shoulder. He shivered, and I smiled. “You’re not supposed to shiver when you feel something warm.”

  “That’s not why I’m shivering.” Matthew stood, blocking out the light from the candles.

  My heart caught at the sight of him. He smiled, hearing the slight irregularity, and drew me toward the bed. We shed our clothes, tossing them to the floor, where they lay in two white pools that caught the silvery light from the windows.

  Matthew’s touches were feather-light while he tracked the minute changes already taking place in my body. He lingered over each centimeter of tender flesh, but his cool attention increased the ache rather than soothing it. Every kiss was as knotted and complex as our feelings about sharing a child. At the same time, the words he whispered in the darkness encouraged me to focus solely on him. When I could bear waiting no longer, Matthew seated himself within me, his movements unhurried and gentle, like his kiss.

  I arched my back in an effort to increase the contact between us, and Matthew stilled. With my spine bowed, he was poised at the entrance to my womb. And in that brief, forever moment, father, mother, and child were as close as any three creatures could be.

  “My whole heart, my whole life,” he promised, moving within me.

  I cried out, and Matthew held me close until the trembling stopped. He then kissed his way down the length of my body, starting with my witch’s third eye and continuing on to my lips, throat, breastbone, solar plexus, navel, and, at last, my abdomen.

  He stared down at me, shook his head, and gave me a boyish grin. “We made a child,” he said, dumbfounded.

  “We did,” I agreed with an answering smile.

  Matthew slid his shoulders between my thighs, pushing them wide. With one arm wrapped around my knee, and the other twined around the opposite hip so his hand could rest on the pulse there, he lowered his head onto my belly as though it were a pillow and let out a contented sigh. Utterly quiet, he listened for the soft whooshing of the blood that now sustained our child. When he heard it, he tilted his head so our eyes met. He smiled, bright and true, and returned to his vigil.

  In the candlelit darkness of Christmas morning, I felt the quiet power that came from sharing our love with another creature. No longer a solitary meteor moving through space and time, I was now part of a complicated planetary system. I needed to learn how to keep my own center of gravity while being pulled this way and that by bodies larger and more powerful than I was. Otherwise Matthew, the de Clermonts, our child—and the Congregation—might pull me off course.

  My time with my mother had been too short, but in seven years she had taught me plenty. I remembered her unconditional love, the hugs that seemed to encompass days, and how she was always right where I needed her to be. It was as Matthew said: Children needed love, a reliable source of comfort, and an adult willing to take responsibility for them.

  It was time to stop treating our sojourn here as an advanced seminar in Shakespeare’s England and recognize it instead as my last, best chance to figure out who I was, so that I could help my child understand his place in the world.

  But first I needed to find a witch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We passed the weekend quietly, reveling in our secret and indulging in the speculations of all parents-to-be. Would the newest member of the de Clermont clan have black hair like his father but my blue eyes? Would he like science or history? Would he be skilled with his hands like Matthew or all thumbs like me? As for the sex, we had different opinions. I was convinced it was a boy, and Matthew was equally sure it was a girl. Exhausted and exhilarated, we took a break from thoughts of the future

  to view sixteenth-century London from the warmth of our rooms. We started at the windows overlooking Water Lane, where I spied the distant towers of Westminster Abbey, and finished in chairs pulled up to the bedroom windows, where we could see the Thames. Neither the cold nor the fact that it was the Christian day of rest kept the watermen from their business making deliveries and ferrying passengers. At the bottom of our street, a group of rowers-for-hire huddled on the stairs that led down to the waterside, their empty boats bobbing up and down on the swells.

  Matthew shared his memories of the city during the course of the afternoon as the tide rose and fell. He told me about the time in the fifteenth century when the Thames froze for more than three months—so long that temporary shops were built on the ice to cater to the foot traffic. He also reminisced about his unproductive years at Thavies Inn, where he had gone through the motions of studying the law for the fourth and final time.

  “I’m glad you got to see it before we leave,” he said, squeezing my hand. One by one, people were illuminating their lamps, hanging them from the prows of boats and setting them in the windows of houses and inns. “We’ll even try to fit in a visit to the Royal Exchange.”

  “We’re going back to Woodstock?” I asked, confused.

  “For a short time, perhaps. Then we’ll be going back to our present.” I s
tared at him, too startled to speak.

  “We don’t know what to expect during the gestation period, and for

  your safety—and the child’s—we need to monitor the baby. There are tests to run, and it would be a good idea to have a baseline ultrasound. Besides, you’ll want to be with Sarah and Emily.”

  “But, Matthew,” I protested, “we can’t go home yet. I don’t know how.” His head swung around.

  “Em explained it clearly before we left. To travel back in time, you need

  three objects to take you where you want to go. To travel forward you need witchcraft, but I can’t do spells. It’s why we came.” “You can’t possibly carry the baby to term here,” Matthew said, shooting out of his chair.

  “Women do have babies in the sixteenth century,” I said mildly. “Besides, I don’t feel any different. I can’t be more than a few weeks pregnant.”

  “Will you be powerful enough to carry both her and me back to the future? No, we need to leave as soon as possible, and well before she’s born.” Matthew drew to a halt. “What if timewalking damages the fetus in some way? Magic is one thing, but this—” He sat down abruptly.

  “Nothing has changed,” I said soothingly. “The baby can’t be much bigger than a grain of rice. Now that we’re in London, it shouldn’t be difficult to find someone to help me with my magic—not to mention one who understands timewalking better than Sarah and Em.”

  “She’s the size of a lentil.” Matthew stopped. He thought for a few moments and came to a decision. “By six weeks all the most critical fetal developments will have taken place. That should give you plenty of time.” He sounded like a doctor, not a father. I was beginning to prefer Matthew’s premodern rages to his modern objectivity.

  “And if I need seven?” Had Sarah been in the room, she would have warned him that my reasonableness was not a good sign.

  “Seven weeks would be fine,” Matthew said, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Oh, well, that’s good. I’d hate to feel rushed when it comes to something as important as figuring out who I am.” I strode toward him.

  “Diana, that’s not—”

  We were standing nose to nose now. “I don’t have a chance of being a good mother without knowing more about the power in my blood.”

  “This isn’t good—”

  “Don’t you dare say this isn’t good for the baby. I’m not some vessel.” My temper was at full boil now. “First it was my blood you wanted for your scientific experiments, and now it’s this baby.”

  Matthew, damn him, stood quietly by, arms crossed and gray eyes hard.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Well what? Apparently my participation in this conversation isn’t required. You’re already finishing my sentences. You might as well start them, too.”