‘What?’
He was staring now. I could not bear it. It was the worst sacrifice I had ever needed to make, but I knew what had to be done if Alejandro was to survive our dangerous association.
‘Finish your duties here with the Lady Elizabeth, then return to Spain and marry a noblewoman chosen by your family. That is your path, and it is an honourable one. I have my own narrower path ahead, a path of magick and solitude, and there can be no space for you on it.’
‘Meg, no!’ Alejandro exclaimed, catching at my arm as I turned towards the house.
‘Noli me tangere!’ I cried in a voice of power, and suddenly he was on his back on the grassy track, winded, staring up at me in shock. ‘Let that be a lesson to you, priest. Do not seek me out again before I leave, or I will strike you down again. There can be no love between what I am and what you are – only hatred and fear. I see that now, and am glad we must part before you can betray me to your masters.’
As I hobbled painfully into the shadow of the house, I realized that I was crying, and wiped away the tears before anyone could see my weakness.
My heart was breaking. I had thought we would be together for ever. But of course there could be no happiness for us. Our love had been a foolish girl’s dream. The Lady Elizabeth had betrayed my trust and loyalty, and perhaps that would prove a good thing in the end. For now I must grow up, harden my heart to love, and become a solitary witch like my aunt.
‘Adios,’ I whispered, bidding Alejandro farewell in his own language, but I did not look back.
NINETEEN
Prisoner
My father came out to stare when I arrived home at Lytton Park, then hurried to help me down from the cart. He shook hands with William, exchanging a few awkward words with his son. Then he kissed my cheek, not quite meeting my eyes. The last time we had seen each other, he had been drunk and angry in a bedchamber at the Bull Inn in Woodstock, refusing to admit to his betrayal of my aunt. I kissed him back, yet could not find it in my heart to feel love for him, not after he had condemned Aunt Jane to the fire in order to steal the princess’s letter of clemency. But he was still my father and I owed him some respect for that, if for no other reason.
‘But are you back for good?’ my father asked when William tried to explain what had happened, clearly bewildered by our sudden return. ‘And why was Meg dismissed from the princess’s service?’
Warily, he lifted his head to gaze down the dirt track that led out of the park – almost as though expecting to see soldiers galloping after us in angry pursuit.
My father was looking much older, I thought. There was more grey in his hair and beard, and his face was becoming lined. Perhaps he had learned his lesson about meddling with politics, when Aunt Jane died and he nearly lost his children too. But I doubted it.
‘Let us talk inside,’ I murmured, uncomfortable under the servants’ curious stares. ‘It’s been a long drive and my throat is dry. Then I would like to rest in my old bedchamber, if the bed can be aired for me.’
‘Of course.’ He turned to give orders to the servants and they ran inside. Then he led the way into his study, where a fire was burning cosily and his hound lay sleeping on the hearth. At the sight of me, he jumped up and began to lick at my face. I crouched down to embrace him, and could not help remembering the day I had come down in secret to feed my aunt’s magickal books and papers to the fire before the witchfinder could come back and search the house. How it had grieved me to see her precious hoard consumed by fire. Yet I had known it had to be destroyed. Sometimes pain had to be suffered to prevent a greater hurt later. I only hoped Alejandro would soon recover from any pain at our parting.
For my own part, I knew I could never feel love again. Not like this, not with such depth and urgency. But Alejandro was a man, and would soon fall in love with someone else.
Someone better.
I stopped torturing myself, and rose to my feet. I swayed slightly, for they were still tender under the bandages, and saw William’s worried glance.
‘What is it?’ my father asked at once. He had been pouring us both a cup of wine, but now he stopped, coming to take me by the shoulders. He stared down into my face. ‘Meg, are you in pain?’
How to answer that, I wondered feverishly. But I managed a shake of my head. ‘It’s nothing. I hurt my feet a few days ago, that’s all. I just need to get some rest, if my chamber is ready.’ I glanced without appetite at the platter of meat the maid was carrying in. ‘I can always eat later. Forgive me, Father. I’m not hungry now. Just dog-tired.’
He nodded, but still looked uneasy.
‘What is it, Father?’ I frowned, searching his face. ‘Something is troubling you.’
His hands tightened on my shoulders and he leaned close to my ear. ‘Marcus Dent is back. You know that?’
‘William told me, yes.’
‘He came here some months ago, asking after you. I told him you were at court, still in the Lady Elizabeth’s service. Did I do wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Father. He can do nothing to me now. He has no power left to frighten me.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Are you certain? His face—’ He shuddered, remembering. ‘He is scarred now, and one eye is missing. He speaks so harshly. I did not want him to pursue you to court.’
‘I told you, Marcus Dent can do nothing to hurt me. I made sure of that before I left for court.’ I saw his wary look again and regretted saying that. My magick was not something I needed to share with him. It would only lead all of us into danger. ‘I’m so very tired. Will you be terribly disappointed if I sleep tonight, and we talk more tomorrow?’
My father made no argument against this, but called another servant and had me escorted to my bedchamber. The place was in disarray, the old rushes unswept, the wall hangings stained, and the mattress hurriedly stuffed with fresh straw where it had been sagging. But some recently aired linen had been thrown over it, then enough blankets and covers heaped up to keep out the autumn chill. With the help of a young maid, I was soon out of my gown and snuggling under the covers, trying to get warm. My brother came to see how I was, but went away without speaking, finding me drowsy and already half asleep.
Since leaving Hatfield, I no longer dreamed of the tower. But I dreamed of Alejandro that first night, and then every night I was there. Always the same dream, the two of us together on a dark stairway, and his arm about my waist, helping me descend. Then his voice in my ear, ‘I love you, Meg Lytton. And I will never be parted from you again.’
Whenever I woke, my eyes were damp with tears. I knew then not to be afraid of my recurring vision of the tower and Marcus Dent with an axe. For I knew Alejandro and I would never see each other again. Or not in this life, at any rate.
So if that dream was untrue, all the others were too.
Several weeks passed and we settled back into our old life at Lytton Park with surprising ease. I took charge of the housekeeping now that my aunt was no longer alive, for there appeared to be chaos in some unlived-in parts of the house. My father handed over the keys to the cellar and the store cupboards without demur, clearly happy to have some kind of female presence back under his roof. The kitchen servants took their orders from me after that, and if any of them remembered the day Marcus Dent and his men came to the house, calling my aunt a witch and dragging her away, none of them ever spoke to me with disrespect or mentioned my aunt’s fate.
It was hard not to wonder what Alejandro was doing, so far away at Hatfield House. Sometimes, in an idle moment towards the close of day, I would catch myself thinking of Alejandro with pleasure, and would have to reprimand myself sternly. I did not want to spend the rest of my life dreaming of a man to whom I had once been betrothed. I was not that weak. But it did hurt, recalling how happy I had been in his arms and the plans we had made for our future together.
Happiness is fleeting, I told myself. Better to face the truth now that we will never be together, and focus on what I can do . . .
magick, that is.
Thankfully, such cruel conversations in my head were rare. Mostly, I would remember his lips on mine, then hurry to oversee some unsavoury task – the beating of dusty bolsters and bedcovers outside in the chill autumn air, or the scrubbing of the hall flagstones to discourage beetles and cockroaches from lodging in the gaps between stones.
Eventually, I looked out one morning and saw how the grassy lawns were cracked with frost, spiders’ webs turned to icy ropes of white across every bush and fence. The evenings had begun to draw in earlier, fires lit in the downstairs chambers as soon as daylight began to fade, to ward off the dark and cold.
Soon it would be winter, I realized, and we would have been apart more than a month.
He did not write. Nor did I.
It was better that way, I lied to myself, and even stopped looking out towards the gates of Lytton Park every day, hoping to see a servant on a pony bearing a letter for me. After all, what good did it do to constantly pine for someone who would never be mine? Perhaps one day I would cast a spell to banish unwanted love, and that would be an end to it.
Yet whenever I thought of gathering the ingredients for such a spell, somehow I would find an excuse to put it off another week or two. I was half in love with love, that was my problem, and I was wallowing in my loneliness instead of moving on.
One day, as winter began to settle about the house in earnest, I finally heard the sound of an unexpected rider approaching and almost dropped the basket of dried apples I had been carrying down from the attics. They were among the last fruits from the harvest, dried in the sun and wrapped carefully in cloth to preserve them from weevils, and the maid looked at me askance. I handed her the precious basket, wiped my hands on my apron, and hurried outside to see who it was.
I heard shouts of alarm, and looked down the track to see my brother rushing out of the stables to help the rider. ‘Whoa there!’ he cried, bravely trying to grab at the horse’s bridle as it careered past.
The rider looked to be a young man, bloodied and bruised, his clothing torn, almost slipping off the horse as the scared animal approached the house at a canter.
Not caring that the servants might be watching, I lifted a hand and spoke a few soothing words under my breath. The horse reared up, then stopped before me, pawing the ground and neighing frantically.
I looked up at the barely conscious rider. Even through the cuts and bruising, I could see who it was.
‘Richard?’ My brother came running to help him down from the saddle. ‘Sweet Lord, your face. What happened to you?’
Collapsing onto his knees before me, Richard looked up at me. I could see the apology in his battered face. ‘Marcus Dent has taken Alejandro,’ he gasped, then drew a few more shuddering breaths before continuing. ‘Forgive me, we were both so intent on keeping the princess safe from harm that it did not occur to us that Dent would take one of us instead. He lured Alejandro out of the grounds at Hatfield, sending a note which seemed to be from you. I told Alejandro not to go, that it was a trap, but he would not listen to reason. I decided to go with him, but they took us easily in the end. Fell on us at dusk from behind, like the cowards they are.’
My brother swore an oath, still steadying the frightened horse. ‘Those villains!’
‘Go on.’ I looked at Richard steadily. If he told me Alejandro was dead, I would not long survive my betrothed, but would ride out and kill Marcus Dent with my own bare hands if necessary. ‘What happened then? Tell me everything.’
‘Dent took us both prisoner and brought us to a tower he has built at the base of a wooded ravine, some ten miles north-west of here. He is holding Alejandro there, he says, and will kill him if you do not give yourself up to him by sundown tomorrow. That was the message I was to bring you. That, and my face.’ He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground at my feet. ‘I was to say your betrothed would look like this before he dies. Dent will not spare him pain, in other words, if you should fail to arrive.’
‘How many men does he have?’ my father asked.
I was startled, for I had not seen him come out of the house. ‘Father, please go back into the house, this is not your battle,’ I said urgently. ‘Dent will kill you.’
‘It is you he wishes to kill, Meg,’ my father pointed out sharply, then helped Richard to his feet. ‘Come inside, good sir, and let your wounds be tended by my servants. Then we must talk. This message you bear is for me and my son, I believe. My daughter will not be stirring from this place, however many riders come from Dent and his infernal tower.’
I stared. ‘Wait,’ I insisted. ‘You . . . you knew of this tower Dent has built?’
My father shrugged. ‘The whole county knows. Dent’s tower is famous here. He started building it this spring, and paid his labourers well over the odds for it to be finished before winter set in. A monstrosity, by all accounts, built of rough-hewn stone and set in barren countryside, with only one habitable chamber.’ He frowned, seeing my stunned expression. ‘Why, is this tower of some importance? I thought it nothing but further evidence of Dent’s madness.’
Was I the last in Oxfordshire to know that the desolate tower from my vision was real? I looked from him to Richard, whose ironic glance told me he at least understood my despair and astonishment. Then I shook my head. ‘It does not matter,’ I managed to reassure him.
Nor did it matter, for all it meant was that this moment was fated, that the malevolent stars had collided to bring me to this day, this hour, when I would have to give up my life in exchange for my beloved’s. If I had known of the tower’s existence earlier, I might have been tempted to go there and destroy it, or Dent himself.
Instead, I had guessed the danger we stood in, yet had foolishly done nothing to prevent it.
I laughed, and saw them look at me strangely. ‘Yes, let’s get you inside, Richard,’ I agreed, to hide my sudden exhilaration. ‘I shall have warm water brought for your cuts, and a bedchamber prepared so you can rest.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmured through his cut lip, but I knew Richard was not fooled by my calm demeanour. He knew what I intended to do, and with any luck he would support me in my plan.
I did not want my father and brother to see how excited and nervous I was. For weeks now I had barely been alive, lost in some dreary wilderness of my own making, drifting from one day to the next, overseeing the household, chiding the servants for laziness, labelling bottles, collecting and storing nuts for winter, and mending the ancient tapestries in the hall.
Now at last something had happened. Alejandro needed me. The moment I had been expecting had finally arrived, clear as a trumpet call to battle after a long night of waiting.
After settling Richard in a suitably comfortable chamber, and ensuring that his cuts had been tended with a special tincture of my own making, I hurried to my room and drew out the magickal books from their hiding place beneath my mattress. I had barely looked at them since coming home, preferring to hide my witchcraft from my disapproving father. But now I went hunting for a spell within their pages, turning from one book to the other in despair, knowing I needed a spell that would give me the advantage in a last fight against Marcus Dent.
But Dent was going to cut off my head, I reminded myself, and sat staring down at the untidy black scrawl in my own spell book.
There could be no spell to protect against decapitation, surely?
It was dark now. The moon mocked me through the window, round as a silver coin, shedding light across the icy grounds of Lytton Park. I suddenly wished my aunt was there to advise me, for she had always known the answers to my questions, the right spells to choose, and which to sidestep.
If only I could sidestep Dent’s axe.
I closed my eyes, remembering that last vision, how the axe had flashed down and then . . . nothing.
But that had been a magickal death, a death within my vision which had nearly taken me on this earth too. Would a genuine death by the axe be instantaneous too, or would there be any pain
? What if the axe did not quite connect properly and my neck was only half separated from my head? I had heard of such botched decapitations, women staggering about in agony while the executioner tried to catch them, their bloodied necks gushing blood, and men whose gristly necks were so tough they had to be sawn off by the headsman with a short knife, for the axe had only done half its job.
Shuddering, I searched more slowly through the pages of my books, desperate to find something, anything, that might allow me to offer myself to Marcus Dent and his axe in Alejandro’s place – yet still survive the blow which must inevitably follow.
A tiny sound outside my door brought me upright, suddenly nervous. Someone was moving about on the landing. I could see a shadow passing back and forth under the door.
As quietly as I could, I pushed my magickal books back under my mattress, then crept to the door. With one ear pressed to the wood, I could hear muttering outside, a strange low chanting that reminded me of . . .
Furious, I threw open the door and stared at Richard. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I demanded.
He took a wary step backwards into a tiny candlelit circle he had scratched out on the floorboards, but did not stop his chanting. His hand passed to and fro before my door, sealing it with the nine-fold charm I recognized from that night in the wood, one of the unbreakable spells to force me to remain in my room until I was released.
I threw up my hand, and met an impenetrable barrier. Invisible, but as strong as a brick wall.
‘How dare you? Release me at once!’
‘It’s for your own good, Meg,’ he told me, then finished the charm, I ran through a number of possible spells to dissolve it, but even as I cried out my counterspells, I knew there was little point. Richard had been secretly laying this charm for some minutes while I was reading inside, oblivious to his spell, and it was already too late to break it.
I was well and truly imprisoned in my room.
Witchfall Page 26
