Witchfall

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘It’s just the stink of this place,’ I muttered, and hugged myself into his fine cloak, still warm from his body. ‘I can’t stomach it.’

  ‘Hampton Court does not smell much better,’ he pointed out.

  ‘But the court is there and the Lady Elizabeth, and it is my duty to serve her.’ I tried to distract him with my chatter. ‘At least summer is nearly upon us. Perhaps the Queen will finally allow us to depart for the country before the stench of the palace infects us all with some plague.’

  I felt safer once we were on board the barge and heading back along the dark Thames towards Hampton Court. The ancient timbers creaked and protested beneath us, oars struggling against the current, the return journey far slower as we hugged the central streams of the river, avoiding jetties that we knew to be watched by the Queen’s spies.

  Wishing to avoid the winks of the bargemen, bribed to keep silent about our secret journey, I stood apart from Alejandro and gazed out over the blackness that was London asleep. Once or twice a small boat approached us, with men and torches on board who looked to be portsmen, and I feared we would be discovered. But each time I raised my hand and softly spoke, ‘Depart!’ in Latin, then watched as my power steered the boat away from our barge and sent it dancing violently across the current, leaving them no chance to turn in pursuit.

  As we left the city behind, I gripped the barge rail and stared down at the water, sick at heart. There was little profit in telling Alejandro that the astrologer had conjured a semblance of my poor dead aunt, nor had I any desire to discuss what I had seen in John Dee’s scrying bowl. For from what I had been shown in that last terrifying vision, it seemed I had neither future nor husband ahead of me – and no head either.

  FOUR

  Dead Queen

  Another day and an evening went by before one of the Queen’s physicians finally agreed to visit the Lady Elizabeth, by which time I had managed to beg more logs for the fire and warmed the room as I remember Blanche used to do at Woodstock when the princess was sick. A tall Spaniard with a domed forehead and bulging eyes, his skin the colour of beaten copper, he examined the drowsy Elizabeth with only mild interest. It was clear he thought little of her Protestant leanings.

  ‘A disease of the spirit,’ he proclaimed, straightening from his cursory examination. ‘Very common in young women of an hysterical disposition, and hardly worth calling me away from the care of Her Majesty for such a trifling matter. Your mistress will recover with bed rest and good care. Meanwhile, let her take a cup of wine every three hours, and perhaps some mutton broth if she can keep it down.’

  ‘And the swelling?’

  The Spanish doctor shrugged. ‘It is a simple imbalance of the humours. The Lady Elizabeth is melancholic and suffers from an excess of black bile. An hourly application of cold cloths steeped in hyssop should help to alleviate the swelling in her lower limbs.’

  I stared as he packed away his instruments and turned to leave the room. ‘Señor, is there nothing else you can do for her ladyship? She suffers badly.’

  ‘You could pray for her soul,’ he suggested helpfully after a moment’s pause. ‘In my opinion, this affliction is a punishment from God for the wicked heretical views she has embraced in the past. Let the Lady Elizabeth do penance to our Lord Christ with constant prayer and daily communion. Then she may see an early recovery.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ I said drily, and showed him to the door.

  I returned to the bed to find Elizabeth awake, a faint smile on her lips. Her forehead drenched in perspiration, she sat up slightly to let me rearrange her covers. ‘So this is all God’s fault.’

  I smiled, though in truth I was desperately concerned for the princess. Her skin was almost grey now, and her eyes lacked their usual spark of light and humour. If only Blanche Parry were there to advise me, I thought, busying myself with her pillows. But we had seen nothing of her since she had been dragged away by the Inquisition.

  ‘Would you like me to fetch you a cup of wine, my lady?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I wiped her forehead, trying to sound cheerful. ‘At least your sickness should mean a respite from their questions tomorrow, my lady.’

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ she murmured.

  ‘It’s late, but I must find cloths and an infusion of hyssop to reduce the swelling as the doctor suggested. And your sheets will need to be changed. But you will not be alone while I am gone. I have found a girl to sit with you until I return, my lady.’

  ‘Not that half-witted maid you left with me earlier? She kept staring and crossing herself whenever I looked at her.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lady, she was the best I could find in a hurry.’ I laughed at her expression. ‘This time I asked amongst the Queen’s maids of honour and finally found one who was not required in the birthing rooms and could be more easily spared from her duties. This one should be rather less inclined to cross herself, though I cannot promise anything about her staring. Her name is Alice Upton, and I believe she’s the granddaughter of one of King Edward’s old stewards.’

  I paused meaningfully, in case anyone was listening at the door, and Elizabeth nodded, lowering her eyelids to hide the expression in her eyes. ‘Then let her come forward and sit with me, Meg, while you play hunt the hyssop. This may be the sickness talking, but I am inclined to like the name Alice Upton; it has a good ring to it.’

  I knew then that she had understood me. Her brother Edward had been a fierce Protestant, and had tended to keep men about him whose allegiances and beliefs lay in the same reforming direction. It was unlikely that anyone of that blood would feel any loyalty to Queen Mary and her burning Catholic zeal.

  ‘First though, while we are still private, tell me of your visit to John Dee. All I recall is you whispering in my ear that you had visited him in prison. Then I must have slept again, for I remember nothing else. Was that a true memory or my delirium?’

  ‘We had better speak softly then, for fear we may be overheard,’ I whispered, and pretended to fuss with her covers, stretching across the bed to smooth them down. ‘I have indeed visited Master Dee in the Fleet Prison. He said he would not betray you, even under torture. That he was more powerful than the Inquisition. And then Master Dee . . .’ I stumbled painfully over my words. ‘He . . . conjured the likeness of my aunt to demonstrate his power.’

  The Lady Elizabeth stared up at me. ‘Master Dee conjured your aunt’s spirit? I have heard tales of necromancers who summon the dead to speak with them, but never believed it could be true. Was it indeed your aunt and not some magician’s trick?’

  ‘It was a good likeness,’ I admitted. ‘But whether it was her spirit or not, I could not tell.’

  ‘Did you not speak with her?’

  I shook my head, wishing now that I had not admitted what John Dee had shown me. The princess seemed excited by the news that Dee could conjure spirits. For myself, I hoped he would never play such a trick again. I was still haunted by my aunt’s blank stare. If I had not refused to marry the witchfinder Marcus Dent, he would never have become my enemy, and my aunt might still be alive – for it was through his cruel determination to make me suffer that she had gone to the stake.

  ‘But you believe that I am safe?’ Elizabeth prompted me.

  ‘I trust Master Dee’s word.’

  ‘Then I am as safe as anyone may be in a country such as ours. And it seems I owe you my thanks again, Meg, for undertaking this dangerous task on my behalf.’ She sat up, her face flushed, and took a silver link bracelet from the wooden jewellery chest beside her bed. ‘Here, accept this as your reward.’

  ‘I need no reward for serving you,’ I protested.

  ‘But I wish you to take it. The Spanish ambassador gave me this silver bracelet as a gift, though I suspect it comes from his master, King Philip.’ Her mouth tightened in fury and contempt. ‘What a husband! With my sister laid in a birthing room night and day, struggling to give life to his babe, His Majesty sends me secret gifts and comp
liments as though he would get me with child next. And I must smile and dance with this man, and say nothing, for he holds the key to the prison my life has become.’

  Faced with her fury, I did not argue any further but accepted the bracelet with a curtsey. The tiny silver chain glittered on my palm as I looked down at it, its links so fragile I was afraid it would be broken in my daily work. I would have to hide it away under my floorboards with my secret books, and only wear it on special occasions. The tale of how she received the bracelet interested me though, and I glanced at her curiously, slipping the beautiful thing into my belt pocket.

  It was unlike the princess to be so forthright about King Philip, for while the Queen lay abed he and his Spanish Inquisitors ruled the court. But perhaps Elizabeth too was uneasy about our long wait here at Hampton Court, days stretching into weeks with no news from the Queen’s darkened birthing room. It seemed strange indeed. Yet if the Queen was not pregnant, why would none of her doctors admit this?

  Not that we were alone in this suspicion. Every day courtiers kicked their heels in the richly tapestried corridors, listening for women’s cries or the slam of doors, anything which might indicate the birth of a royal child was imminent. Visitors came to our rooms each morning to pay their respects to the Lady Elizabeth, yet rarely spoke of the Queen’s condition above a whisper. Nor had the cloud of accusation above her head lifted, though it had lessened, with her ladyship allowed to move freely about the palace – though she could not leave court without permission.

  So despite the royal banquets she could now attend at the King’s side, Elizabeth’s position had not much improved. The princess was still essentially a prisoner, tied to these dark corridors and dreaming of the day when she could return to her beloved Hatfield.

  Leaving the princess’s bedchamber, I went in search of Alice. She had been waiting patiently for my summons, a tall, clumsy-looking girl with curly chestnut hair and a snub nose. That she had a sweet nature I had been able to see without using any art, for she had jumped up on hearing of the princess’s sickness and begged to be allowed to serve her. But whether Alice was discreet and stout-hearted enough to join the princess’s raggle-taggle household I was less sure. Only time would tell whether her apparent love for Elizabeth was true or feigned, for she could have been put forward by one of the Queen’s spies, with instructions to watch the princess and her servants while they were at court.

  Now, however, Alice was gushing. ‘Oh, you can trust me, never fear. I shall watch her ladyship like a very hawk, mistress, and not stir a step from her ladyship’s side without permission.’

  ‘Please call me Meg,’ I begged her. Being called ‘mistress’ by a girl my own age was rather like wearing a gown that did not belong to me, too richly trimmed for my status at court. ‘And I shall call you Alice. We do not stand on ceremony in the Lady Elizabeth’s household.’

  Entering the princess’s bedchamber, Alice peered tentatively round the heavy bed curtains, and bobbed a curtsey when she found her royal mistress awake and waiting for her. ‘My lady, my lady,’ she muttered several times and curtseyed again, clearly flustered, very deferential in her manner. ‘An honour to serve the Queen’s sister, my lady.’

  Elizabeth managed a weak laugh. ‘Good Alice, pray find a seat and sit on your hands there. Otherwise you will wear yourself out with all this courtesy.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  I looked at the Lady Elizabeth. ‘Alice will fetch you wine and a bowl of broth when you feel able to take some. I shall return as soon as I can, my lady.’

  Elizabeth was looking exhausted, but nodded me away on my errands. I guessed her swollen body must be aching badly; no doubt she could think of nothing but the cold herbal compresses which might reduce her discomfort.

  ‘Godspeed, Meg.’

  Hurrying away with a list of essential supplies in my hand, I soon found that the Queen’s doctors were not the only people at court to despise the Lady Elizabeth. Although I had no trouble begging old rags and hyssop water from one of the kitchen servants, and bearing it back to Alice so she could begin the lengthy task of steeping and preparing the cold cloths, I had little luck with my search for fresh linen.

  First I found our door guarded by two of the King’s men, swarthy Spaniards who stared at me whenever I entered or left the princess’s apartments. Some might have said they were protecting the princess, but it seemed to me the guards were there to prevent her from leaving. Then, asking for linen, I was sent to the wrong part of the palace, returning footsore and empty-handed. Sending for the head housekeeper, I was told she was already abed and could not speak with me until the morning.

  By the time I discovered the whereabouts of the linen store, the hour was almost midnight. The woman in charge of the linen chests was resentful and heavy-eyed at having been roused from her bed at such a late hour. She looked me up and down with barely disguised contempt when I explained my errand, then handed me an armful of linen so stained and poorly patched it was not fit for a servant’s bed.

  ‘I cannot take these to my mistress,’ I said, frowning over the stains and thin, fraying edges. ‘Perhaps I did not explain myself clearly enough. I need good clean linen for the Lady Elizabeth’s chamber. She is sick and taken to her bed.’

  ‘I heard you,’ the woman said sharply. She was plump and dark-haired with slanted eyes. ‘This is all we can spare.’

  ‘This?’

  ‘All the best linen is reserved for the Queen and her ladies.’ Ending the discussion there, the woman shut the chamber door in my face. ‘Goodnight.’

  The back courtyard was dark and empty as I trudged across in my clogs, linen in hand, my eyes half closing with drowsiness. Few logs for the fire, poor linen for her bed, and now two grim-faced Spanish guards on her door. So this was all the courtesy my mistress was to receive, summoned back to court as though all charges against her had been false, yet still suspected and under guard. No doubt they would be whispering against her until the Queen gave birth, for until then Elizabeth must still seem a threat. Meanwhile my lady suffered badly, and had none but me and Alice to care for her.

  Torches flamed above me on the ramparts, and I could hear the men in the guardroom playing some game, dice probably. The rest of the palace wing seemed to be in darkness, the windows shuttered and locked, for beyond them lay the Queen’s apartments in its strange, deathly hush.

  I thought of the dark-eyed, sharp-chinned Queen, and tried to imagine her lying in pain and fear amongst her rich bed hangings as she waited for her child to finally emerge. I wondered again if my prediction had been right, that Queen Mary had no child in her belly and dared not tell her husband. I could see now why it could be considered a treasonous act to draw up and consult a horoscope on such a delicate matter. For any man to be in a position to tell if and when a royal birth – or a death – might occur was a dangerous thing, for that was the kind of information which could shape a country’s fate.

  Then I forgot all about the Queen and her unborn child. I stopped dead on the path, my skin creeping with fear.

  A rat had come scuttling out of the bushes just ahead of me. At least, I thought it was a rat, though as the creature moved closer it seemed to grow and shift shape, until it was almost shuffling on its hind paws like a man. Its body was unnaturally large-boned, its head long and gleaming black as though it had just slipped out of the river.

  Its whiskered face turned towards me with a malicious air. For a horrifying second I thought it would speak.

  ‘Evil spirit,’ I began hurriedly, tripping over my spell, ‘in the name of great Hecate, in the name of the four directions, begone and take thy foulness far from here!’

  Still the rat came on, staring at me with its shiny black eyes, and I realized that my spell was having no effect. How was it possible that a creature so small could resist my magick? Sweat broke out on my forehead as I backed away, my gaze locked with the rat’s. Had I chosen my words poorly, or was I losing my skill as a witch?

&n
bsp; Suddenly the door to the guardroom was flung open with a crash, throwing light from its well-lit interior across the yard.

  Two men wearing the King’s livery and with dark complexions hurried down the steps and past me with little more than a brief glance, arguing heatedly with each other in Spanish.

  I turned back, my gaze searching the shadows under the tower, but the rat had gone.

  Wary now, glancing from left to right as I climbed the tower stairs, I hurried back along the corridors towards the princess’s apartments. It was not the first time I had seen such a creature, I realized, casting my mind back to the day on the river bank when Alejandro had asked me to marry him. Could that have been the same rat who slipped from the river that day? I had thought instinctively of Marcus Dent at the sight of its mad eyes, part of me wondering if the witchfinder had returned from the void in rat form, not as a human.

  Shaking away such wild imaginings, I elbowed my way through the half-open door into the Lady Elizabeth’s bedchamber. My spell had failed because I was weary and needed sleep, that was all it was.

  The heavy bed curtains had been drawn back as though to encourage the heat of the fire, and a flushed Alice had fallen asleep beside her royal charge, her curly head resting wearily on the counterpane.

  As I entered the room, the Lady Elizabeth woke with a start and cried out, ‘God defend us!’

  Alice woke with a snort, gave a strangled shriek and fell backwards off her stool. She struggled to her feet and stood wild-eyed, staring at us as though she could not remember where she was.

  Dropping the pile of linen, I hurried to the princess’s bedside. ‘What is it, my lady? Are you in pain? Has your sickness worsened?’

  ‘No,’ Elizabeth said hoarsely, shaking her head as I reached for a cool cloth to lay on her forehead. ‘I had a dream. The most terrible dream. I saw my mother standing before me in this very room. It was Queen Anne, I swear it! I have a portrait of her in my locket, and as soon as she came towards me, I recognized her face. She held out her hands and they were . . . they were covered in blood.’