Witchfall (7 page)

‘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 compliments 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?

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.’

‘Oh, my lady!’ Alice crossed herself, her hands shaking. ‘You saw a ghost? Saints preserve us!’

I took a deep breath and helped the Lady Elizabeth to sit up against her pillows. ‘Rest yourself, my lady, and be easy in your mind. It was no ghost, but a nightmare brought on by your sickness.’ Turning to Alice, I managed a flustered smile. ‘Alice, would you run to the kitchens and heat a cup of sweet posset for the Lady Elizabeth while I change her bed linen?’

Alice nodded and hurried away, though I could see her glancing dubiously about the chamber as though expecting to see a ghost lurking in one of the corners.

‘Listen to me,’ Elizabeth insisted, grabbing at my arm as I shook out the linen. ‘In the dream, my mother was trying to tell me something, but I woke before she could speak.’

‘You are exhausted, my lady,’ I said soothingly.

Her face flared with sudden anger. ‘Fool, why will you not listen? I know what I saw and it was my mother, not some nightmare conjured by a fevered brain.’ The princess stared at me commandingly, her eyes hard and dark as jet. ‘Summon my mother’s spirit, just as Dee summoned the spirit of your aunt, and let me speak with her.’

I was horrified.

‘I cannot conjure the dead, my lady. I do not have the power.’

‘Don’t lie to me, girl. I know in what high esteem Master Dee holds you.’ Elizabeth fumbled for the cross at her neck. ‘What is the matter? Are you afraid, Meg? I do not fear the
dead, only the living. I pray you, use your powers and summon the spirit of Queen Anne for me. If I am in danger, my mother will warn me of it.’

I stooped to pick up the linen I had let fall, my voice shaking. ‘I promise you, my lady, I am no necromancer like Master Dee. I do not know the right words and to get the spell wrong could be disastrous.’

‘My mother would never harm me,’ she said stubbornly.

‘Queen Jane died at Hampton Court, perhaps in these very apartments, soon after your brother King Edward was born. Do you think it could have been Queen Jane you saw, and not your mother?’

‘It was not my stepmother,’ Elizabeth said hoarsely. She turned her head away, staring at the hearth as though she hoped to see her mother’s spirit emerge from the ashes of the dying fire. ‘It was the ghost of my mother, coming to bring me comfort in this place of torment. It was Anne Boleyn, I tell you!’

I struggled not to shout at the princess to be silent and drop this madness. It was hard to remember that she was my mistress and the Queen’s sister when she was forcing me into dark magicks I had no wish to perform. To witness my poor aunt’s spirit called forth by an adept like Master Dee had been terrifying enough. But for a country witch to try and call forth the tortured spirit of Anne Boleyn, an executed
Queen of England, felt like an affront against nature.