Witchfall (2 page)

How could he ask that? Alejandro had been present at the horrible execution of my aunt, burned at the stake as a witch and a heretic. He must know that my last glimpse of Aunt Jane, screaming in agony as she was consumed by smoke and flame, had been scorched into my mind’s eye for ever.

‘I shall be more careful in future,’ I promised him.

‘But you will not stop.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I cannot,’ I whispered.

‘Not even for my sake?’ He held up the candle to see my face better. ‘Not even though I am your betrothed and ask it of you?’

Beyond the closed door, I could hear clattering and shouts from the vast roaring kitchens as hundreds of servants
bustled about, preparing a feast fit for the royal court.

I placed a hand on his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath my fingers. ‘I was born into this path. I cannot be other than a witch, any more than you could turn away from your training in the priesthood. Please do not ask me to change who I am, Alejandro.’

He looked deep into my eyes, then nodded slowly. ‘So be it.’

For a long moment we gazed at each other without speaking. It was the first time in weeks we had managed to be alone together, and heat bloomed in my face at the sheer intensity of his look. Was this how love always felt, this exquisite tenderness, as though my emotions had been scraped raw and could not bear to be touched? I wanted so badly to speak, to admit that my love for him was as strong as ever, despite the obstacles that fate had thrown between us. Yet I did not wish to break this love-spell with the clumsiness of speech. And what if he did not feel the same way?

Alejandro bent his head and touched his lips to mine.

My arms clasped about his neck, and I kissed him back, temporarily pushing all my fears to one side as I let my heart rule my head.

We swayed together, tangled up in each other like strands of wild honeysuckle, then his arm came round my waist, pulling me even closer. Still I did not resist, lost to reason, wanting the moment to last for ever.

He made a strangled noise under his breath, and the heat of his kiss increased. Then suddenly he took an abrupt step backwards, holding the candle in a less than steady hand. ‘Meg, we cannot . . .’

My cheeks were on fire. I knew he was right. But that did not make the trembling ache inside me any less of a torment.

‘Yes . . . I mean, no. We should . . . go,’ I managed unevenly, but could not resist brushing his cheek with my fingertips.

‘That would be wise,’ Alejandro agreed with a crooked smile, ‘before I lose my head.’

It was only a joke. But I remembered Marcus Dent with his axe, and shuddered.

After the witchfinder had put me through a sickening trial by water – bound and thrown into a pool, to drown if innocent, to be hanged if I survived – my banishing spell had tossed him into the void. I had thought him gone for ever. Yet now Marcus Dent was appearing in my visions, seemingly unharmed by his ordeal. What could it mean?

Alejandro opened the door and bowed, allowing me to go through before him.

‘Meg, the Lady Elizabeth awaits you,’ he reminded me softly when I hesitated.

I nodded and squeezed past him in the dark narrow space. These were dangerous times at court, and I needed to focus on survival, not on the prickling heat I felt whenever I looked at Alejandro.

I had heard nothing of Marcus Dent since the Lady Elizabeth had been summoned back to court earlier that spring. Now summer was approaching fast, and every day I feared Dent’s arrival. I did not know where he had vanished to after Woodstock, nor how long my spell to silence him might last.

It was not a comfortable thought that my vision could be a premonition of my death. If Marcus Dent had indeed returned from some otherworldly void, and was perhaps free to accuse me of witchcraft once more, I would have no chance against him. The word of a witchfinder must outweigh the word of a suspected witch every time.

I rejoined the Lady Elizabeth in the Great Hall, sidling in behind her chair on the high dais and hoping that no one had noticed my absence. I had only slipped away for half an hour during the dancing, after all, and with the Queen still keeping stubbornly to her apartments, these royal banquets never dragged on much beyond nightfall anyway.

Blanche Parry shot me an accusing look but said nothing, pursing her lips and folding both arms across her ample chest as I begged a passing servant for a cup of ale. The princess’s lady-in-waiting knew better than to draw attention to my absence when the King might overhear and punish our mistress for it instead.

‘Forgive me,’ I whispered to Blanche. ‘I forgot the time.’

Mistress Parry’s gaze flicked across the Great Hall to
where Alejandro had joined the black-robed priests at the back wall, his cowl drawn forward to hide his face.

‘Indeed,’ she said drily. ‘At your prayers again, were you? They’ll make you a nun soon, you are so keen on your devotions.’

I ignored her jibe, turning to watch the princess. Since Queen Mary had summoned her to court from imprisonment at Woodstock Palace, the Lady Elizabeth had become a favourite with the courtiers. Some said too much of a favourite, and that the Queen would send her sister away again once the royal baby had been born.

Deep in conversation with His Majesty, the Lady Elizabeth was seated on the left hand of the King, simply dressed in a plain black gown with a net of tiny pearls in her hair. Elizabeth laughed at all King Philip’s jests and smiled in a flattering way, her face flushed and animated.

I spoke little Spanish, so could not follow what the princess and King Philip were saying to each other. But courtiers throughout the Great Hall were openly staring at the couple, their heads so close together – the Queen’s dark-haired Spanish husband and her slim-waisted sister. Indeed, it could not be denied that the princess’s youth and shining reddish-gold hair were in contrast to Queen Mary’s dour looks.

Not that the court had seen much of Queen Mary in recent months. She still kept to her state apartments, insisting that her baby was late. But King Philip showed so little
interest that few still believed their Queen to be with child. Instead, the whispers spoke of a sickly Queen and a young princess who might well be married to the grieving Philip before the year was out.

The dishes were brought out in a long procession that passed in front of the high dais for the King’s approval. He applauded them politely, then the cloth-covered board was crowded with platters and wine cups, with honey-glazed pork flesh and a vast roast swan cut open at table that released half a dozen tiny wrens flapping their wings in panic as they flew upwards, seeking the rafters. The whole court exclaimed in delight and clapped vigorously when the spit-cook was brought forward, red-faced and still in his leather apron, to receive the King’s compliments.

At one point between courses, the Lady Elizabeth turned to me with greasy fingers. ‘Meg?’

Hurriedly, I passed her ladyship a bowl of lemon-scented water and a clean white napkin, freshly starched and folded.

Still listening to His Majesty, Elizabeth dipped her long white fingers in the lemon-scented water without even glancing at me. She dried each finger meticulously, draped the napkin over her shoulder to protect her costly gown, then turned back to the King with an apologetic smile.

A sudden shout at the back of the hall stilled the revellers. A courtier, his face pale with terror, was being dragged from the hall by two of the black-robed priests of the Inquisition. His voice could be heard even after he had been removed,
raised in high-pitched protest of his innocence. The Spanish priests paid no heed, however, their cowls hiding their faces as they took him away. Those priests who had remained walked among the courtiers with watchful eyes, as though hoping to catch another ‘heretic’ by his guilty expression.

Blanche shivered and crossed herself. ‘Poor soul,’ she muttered, but was careful not to speak too loudly, in case she was next.

I saw Alejandro frown at me from across the room, and lowered my gaze with difficulty. He was right. Even to stare could be deemed a sign of guilt or complicity. I wondered how long the Spanish Inquisition would stay at court, their black-robed presence more sinister and alarming with every day that passed. Such arrests had become a common occurrence in recent weeks, as the King and Queen ordered a purge of anti-Catholic feeling at court. Yet none of us dared ask why some courtiers were taken for questioning and not others, nor why a few never came back from the terrifying cells of the Inquisitors.

After the banquet had finished, we were allowed to grab a few mouthfuls of manchet bread and roast meat from the sideboard while the top tables were being pushed back for more dancing. Torches were trimmed and brought forward, for the summer evening was already darkening to dusk in the high windows. The musicians struck up to the swift beat of the tabor, the hautboys carrying the lively tune, and soon my foot was tapping. The Lady Elizabeth began the dancing
with a swift-moving galliard, supported in her leaps by the handsome Spanish King, whose hold on her waist seemed rather too intimate for a married man.

‘Do you see that?’ Blanche nudged me as she watched the royal couple dancing and leaping together. She whispered in my ear, ‘They’re saying King Philip married the wrong sister.’

With so many courtiers crowded about us this was dangerous talk, even if it was no more than the truth. I silenced Blanche Parry with a warning frown. ‘He married our Queen,’ I replied warily, ‘and will soon be father to a Tudor heir, God willing.’

‘Aye, God willing,’ she agreed, seeming to recall her surroundings. But she continued to watch our mistress and the courtly Spaniard with an eager, narrowed gaze.

As the music and dancing began to draw to a close, I hurried back from the Great Hall to prepare the Lady Elizabeth’s bedchamber for her return. The sheets and bed-covers would need to be shaken out and freshened with herbs, her pot wiped clean and any soiled rushes swept away. Down one of the darker corridors, with only one guttering wall torch to light the way, I found my path blocked by a tall hooded man in dark robes.

‘Forgive me,’ I murmured, and tried to slip past the stranger, but he caught me by the arm.

‘Not so fast, Mistress Lytton.’

A Spanish accent. I looked at the man more closely,
seeing a cruel dark face under the cowl of his robes. It was one of the Catholic priests who surrounded King Philip at court, whispering poison in his ear against the English. I disliked being cornered by such a man, particularly in this lonely place, surrounded by long and menacing shadows that seemed to creep in closer as we faced each other.

My tone was cold. ‘Do I know you, sir?’

He looked down at me through the flickering torchlight, studying me as a man might study an insect before he crushes it beneath his heel. ‘Not yet,’ he said lightly. ‘Nor should you ever wish to. My name is Miguel de Pero of the Inquisition.’

I shuddered. So he was one of
them
, the terrifying Spanish priests whose sole purpose was to torture and destroy any who did not follow the Catholic faith – but most especially those who professed any heretic beliefs or who were suspected of witchcraft. Against my will, I recalled Alejandro’s grim description of the Inquisition’s methods. Red-hot irons taken straight from the fire and applied to the flesh, spiked cages and barrels to break the limbs, heavy stones and chains that loosened the tongue, and the fearsome rack that could stretch a man’s spine until it snapped: these were but a few of the horrors in store for those under suspicion, innocent or not, who did not immediately confess their guilt.

‘I see you know our reputation,’ he murmured, the shadows thickening around us as he spoke. ‘Though a girl who consorts so frequently with a novice of the Order of
Santiago de Compostela need not fear the Inquisition, surely?’

My heart ran cold at these words. What did he know?

Señor de Pero nodded, seeing my expression. ‘Yes, your growing intimacy with Alejandro de Castillo has not gone unnoticed at court. He may seem a humble novice to you. But Alejandro is the son of a great nobleman, with a wealthy family awaiting his return in Spain. If Alejandro marries at all, he will be expected to marry a woman of noble Spanish blood.’ His voice grew stern. ‘Not the serving girl of a suspected traitor.’

‘What do you want from me?’ I whispered, guessing the answer already but needing to hear it from his lips.

But the priest did not reply. He had stiffened, staring over my shoulder with a hint of anger in his frowning eyes.

I turned. Alejandro was striding along the dark corridor towards us, his cowl thrown back to reveal a tense expression. At the sight of him I wanted to shout his name with relief, yet somehow managed to bite my tongue. I did not want him to get into trouble with his superiors. Finishing his training meant so much to Alejandro, I could not have borne it if my words or actions meant he were refused a place among the other priests of his Order.

‘Meg?’ Alejandro demanded, reaching me swiftly. He caught my hands in his, his intent gaze searching my face. ‘Why are you so pale? What was Señor de Pero saying to you?’

‘Señor de Pero? Oh, he was just . . .’

I hesitated, not wishing to be the cause of an argument between Alejandro and his masters. But when I turned back, the corridor was empty except for its host of listening shadows.

The black-robed priest had vanished.

‘He was just asking me to convey his compliments to the Lady Elizabeth on her dancing,’ I finished lamely.

Alejandro did not believe a word of my explanation, I could tell by his frown. He must have already been warned away from me by his masters and knew their disapproval of our relationship. But the danger had been averted for the moment, and at least the Inquisition did not seem aware that I had once been accused of being a witch. They merely saw me as a threat to one of their young Spanish novices, an upstart nobody who must be removed before she ruined a promising career in the priesthood.

‘I see,’ he said drily.

He raised my hand to his lips and touched his lips to my skin. I remembered how passionately he had kissed me before the banquet, and felt my cheeks flare with heat again.