Witchrise (10 page)

Promise me you will not interfere. That you will work no magick to heal me.

I buried my face in my hands.

Suddenly I heard a familiar sound outside the door. Pinching out the candle flame between finger and thumb, I stood and brushed the hearth dust from my gown. Then I went to the door and opened it.

‘Richard?’

Dee’s apprentice was standing at the foot of the stairs. He turned and stiffened, no doubt reading the horror and fear in my face. He came towards me at once, taking my hands, rubbing my cold skin.

‘What is it?’ His eyes met mine. ‘Has he worsened?’

‘Alejandro will not let me heal him,’ I whispered. ‘He says I must not use magick, but let God heal him.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Your Spaniard may have glanced at magick for your sake, but he still intends to be a priest. What else did you expect?’

‘Richard, I am afraid he will die.’

‘Then work the spell.’

I shook my head reluctantly. ‘I cannot. It would destroy him. Destroy us.’

‘So let the novice priest take his chances with God. He has made his choice.’ Richard shrugged, turning away. His lip had curled. ‘What more is there for anyone to do?’

I caught at his sleeve. ‘Wait, please. Alejandro may put his faith in God, but I would rather put my faith in you.’

He looked startled. ‘Me?’

‘You can heal him, Richard. I know you can. Not with magick, but with your skill as a healer. You know better than me which plants to use, how to staunch the blood and keep the wound clean to prevent infection.’

‘I am no physick. I have no training in that art.’

‘Do not lie to me. You told me yourself that Master Dee taught you as a boy, showed you everything he knows of healing and physick as well as magick and the art of summoning spirits.’ My grip tightened on his coarse sleeve, encouraged that he had not yet shaken me off. ‘Please, I beg of you to help him.’

‘And if he does not want my help, but only God’s?’

‘I think Alejandro will allow it if no magick is involved. He
must
allow it.’ My voice broke, seeing Richard still so cold and obdurate. ‘It is his only hope of survival.’

‘And if your priest lives,’ he said with quiet savagery, ‘you will marry him?’

‘N-no.’ I twisted my hands together, suddenly nervous. ‘We may be in love, but we are not right for each other. Not for ever and ever.’

‘Does Alejandro know that?’

I swallowed. ‘He suspects it. It is why he does not push me for an answer . . .’ It was not the whole truth, but it was truth enough for now.

Richard looked down at me, studying my face through his lashes. I could not read his expression. His hand lifted to brush my cheek, then he gave a crooked smile as though mocking himself. ‘So there’s hope for me yet?’

‘Don’t,’ I muttered, and his hand fell away.

‘Very well,’ Richard agreed after a moment’s consideration. ‘For your sake, I will try to save your stubborn priest, assuming he will allow my very earthly intervention.’ His voice rose as I dragged him exultantly to the stairs. ‘But I cannot promise to succeed!’

I waited in the chair beside the bed while Richard worked by candlelight, his hands slow and patient, first cleansing the wound with a foul-smelling herbal preparation of his own making, then stitching it closed with a sewing needle and a length of cat-gut.

The cat-gut had been William’s idea: upon hearing that we intended to stitch the wound, he had come to my bedchamber bearing an ancient lute, its wooden belly cracked but the cat-gut strings still intact. Richard painstakingly unthreaded and cleaned the strings, then used the cat-gut as thread to stitch the sides of Alejandro’s wound together.

Trying not to betray my anxiety, I watched Richard set a neat row of stitches into Alejandro’s tortured side, each movement slow and methodical.

‘That smells grim.’

Richard shrugged. ‘I made it with my own urine. Mixed with an infusion of last year’s betony. The two together make an excellent cure-all.’

Faugh!
I wrinkled my nose.

Richard glanced at me. ‘What? You think I carry pots of ointments about with me like some travelling surgeon? It may stink, but it was the best I could do in a hurry.’

I said nothing, merely raised my brows. Though if it worked, I would never grimace at the stench of the privy again.

Alejandro himself slept like the dead throughout the surgery, drugged by a cup of strong wine mixed with a little black fluid which Richard had warned me not to taste, for he said it could be ‘highly poisonous’ if too much was consumed. Indeed, when Alejandro finally awoke he was sweating and shaking, then violently sick, his pallor deathlike. But the cat-gut stitches held firm, and after an hour he lapsed back into uneasy sleep, still sweating but less pale.

‘Will he live?’

Richard had crouched beside the hearth, washing the blood from his hands with a pitcher of warmed salt water. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps not.’ His face drawn with fatigue, he yawned, then reached for a rag to dry his hands. ‘These things can be difficult to predict. His wound was cleaner and less jagged than I expected. But he lost a great deal of blood on the ride here, and that weakness may weigh against him when the fever sets in.’

‘Is he feverish yet?’

‘A little.’ He shrugged, straightening up with a grunt. ‘If your priest makes it through the next few days, his chances are good.’

I was dissatisfied, but it was the best answer I could hope for and I knew it. Between Richard’s skill as a healer and Alejandro’s unshakeable faith in God, he might yet survive.

‘So we wait.’

‘We wait,’ he agreed.

Richard limped to the window and looked up. The full moon had risen above the house, clear and ghostly white in the black heavens. Its silver beams fell across the floor in strips, not quite reaching the bed where Alejandro lay sleeping.

‘And the princess will have to wait too,’ he added drily, ‘for Alejandro to return to Hatfield in your company. Even if he recovers, it could take a while before he’s able to sit a horse again without bursting those stitches.’

It was the first time I could remember Richard using his name, not contemptuously referring to Alejandro as ‘your priest’ or ‘the Spaniard’.

‘Thank you, Richard.’

‘There is no need for thanks.’ He yawned and stretched, a flicker of pain on his face. ‘God’s blood, I need to rest.’

‘Go to bed then; you have done enough here.’ I smiled. ‘I will sit with him, and call you if there is any change.’

On his way to the chamber door, Richard stopped before me, dragged me forward without warning and pressed a kiss on my lips. Not a gentle kiss, nor a brotherly one either, but a man’s kiss, hard and demanding. I felt my heart begin to race, my cheeks flushing, and stared up at him in confused shock when he pulled away.

‘You owed me that kiss, Meg,’ he whispered, meeting my gaze. ‘Call it my fee for helping your priest. Besides, you can hardly begrudge me one kiss if he lives. For he will take all the rest.’

After Richard had left the room, I glanced at Alejandro and was relieved to see him still deep in slumber. If he had been awake to witness that kiss, and how I had blushed under it . . .

He would certainly have burst his stitches then, I thought ruefully, and got up to throw another log on the fire, glad of an excuse for the heat burning in my cheeks.

The next few days passed in a blur of anxiety and sleepless nights at his bedside. Alejandro’s fever grew after that first evening, leaving me numb with fear that he would die, then broke so abruptly that Richard queried whether it had been his careful stitching or indeed God’s will that his servant still lived.

The day after his fever broke, Alejandro woke and spoke lucidly with both of us, though he was still very weak. The following day, he was able to sit up in bed and eat a light meal, and indeed seemed eager to be mended enough to ride back to Hatfield.

It did feel like a miracle. But Alejandro was young and strong, and Richard had great skill as a healer. That was what I told myself anyway.

‘I know what your Spaniard will believe,’ Richard commented drily, watching from the hall as I carried a tray of bread and broth upstairs. ‘That God saved him.’

I shrugged. ‘What difference would it make?’

Alejandro was a fervent believer whose chief desire in life was – or had been, until he met me – to serve God. It was not beyond all possibility that God had intervened to save him. Though in my heart I felt certain it had been Richard’s neat stitches that saved his life. After all, over the past year Alejandro had allied himself with a witch – that was unlikely to have won him any favours with the Almighty.

‘None whatsoever. Just so long as you do not also believe it,’ he said pointedly.

‘I am not such a fool,’ I told him, then pushed my way into the bedchamber where I had left Alejandro sleeping, hoping he had not woken during my absence and overheard our conversation.

I nearly dropped the tray in shock when I found Alejandro out of bed, already dressed in the coarse brown shirt and hose William had lent him.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He looked up at me keenly, a slight colour in his cheeks, buckling his sword belt about his waist. ‘Ah . . . I had hoped to be downstairs before you returned. Look at this!’ Perhaps thinking to distract me, he indicated his leather sword belt. ‘This is too loose. I will need to make a new hole with my dagger. Though no doubt a few good meals will render that unnecessary. Where is my dagger, by the way?’

‘You’re not going anywhere. Get back into bed.’

‘No need, I am much recovered this morning.’ He bent for his doublet and grimaced. His hand flew to his wounded side, hidden by his shirt.

‘Alejandro!’

I pointed towards the bed, but Alejandro refused to move, his hand still clamped over his wound, his lips curled back from his teeth in a kind of pained growl.

‘Leave me to finish dressing,’ he muttered, not looking at me. ‘Forgive me, I have no wish to be ungrateful. I know what diligent care you have taken of me since I returned to Lytton Park. But I am not an invalid and do not need to spend any more days in bed.’

Richard limped into the room. His lightning glance flashed across my face, then assessed Alejandro.

‘I expect he’ll live,’ he told me drily when I had explained what had happened. ‘You had better wait downstairs though while I check his wound. Go on, your father is below and wishes to speak with you.’

I left the room, but reluctantly.

I hated the pained look in Alejandro’s eyes, and the fact that it had deepened when he glanced from me to Richard. His jealousy remained unspoken, but that did not mean I was unaware of it.

Downstairs, my father called me into his study, his face stern. I could already guess what he wanted to say and stood in an agony of impatience, wishing I knew if Alejandro’s wound had split.

‘I imagine the Spaniard will be ready to return to Hatfield soon,’ my father began coldly, standing by the fire with his hands clasped behind his back, ‘and you no doubt intend to accompany him back there. With or without my permission as your father.’

I shrugged, not bothering to respond. I was no longer a child, being almost seventeen years of age, but my father believed he still had the right to pass judgement on my decisions. It had been one thing to respect his feelings as master of this house by asking Alejandro to return to Hatfield. But now apparently I needed my father’s permission to leave Lytton Park in his company. The injustice made my lips tighten.

There was a chilly silence between us. The fire crackled and I stared at it, not prepared to meet his gaze.

‘If you leave Lytton Park, Marcus Dent will find you,’ my father said pointedly, ‘and destroy you. When he came to visit me before you returned home, Dent made it clear he would remember our friendship and not attack you while you remained under my roof. So you see, you cannot go back to Hatfield if you wish to live.’

‘Marcus lied to you,’ I said impatiently. ‘He cannot attack me here because the place is beset with protective spells. Not because of his old friendship with you.’

My temper, always quick to rise, flared; I could not help myself. ‘Anyway, what do you care if Marcus does attack me? You have never shown me love or understanding. You have only ever disapproved of me and tried to control me.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ he blustered, glaring at me. ‘I am your father. You owe me respect, girl.’

I held my breath, counting to ten as I tried to calm down. This argument was foolish and pointless. My father could not hold me here, and we both knew it. It was better to speak calmly and leave his house with some dignity.

‘I shall return to Hatfield with Alejandro as soon as he is able to travel, and probably take William with me too. The Lady Elizabeth has asked for me in person and I am still loyal to her ladyship, even if she saw fit to dismiss me in the autumn.’ I glanced from the smoking fireplace to the ugly faded tapestry on the wall. ‘Surely you see Lytton Park is no longer for me? I was made for more than hiding quietly beneath my father’s roof like a mouse under the floorboards.’

I went to the door, but my father had not finished. He followed me in haste, his chest rattling with deep, harsh breaths.

‘You will regret leaving here,’ he warned me. ‘This is the only safe place in the country for you.’

I turned on him in the doorway. ‘Being here did not help Aunt Jane when Dent burst in and dragged her away to her death. Dent might leave me alone for a few years, but eventually he would grow impatient and come for me.’ I glared back at him until his gaze dropped. ‘And what would happen if you were to die, Father? Would Master Dent still honour his promise to leave me alone?’

‘You seem very keen for my death,’ he muttered savagely.

‘I am merely aware of my vulnerability if I make the tactical error of standing still – and letting him catch me.’

‘Meg, stay with me.’ His voice faltered. I realized with a shock that his mouth was trembling. ‘Please.’

‘Forgive me, but it is my duty to serve the Lady Elizabeth at Hatfield. Besides, there is nothing left for me here,’ I told him flatly, unwilling to hurt him but equally unwilling to stay.