Witchrise (29 page)

William was shaking his head. His tone was impatient. ‘Fire will distract them, Meg. Not a spell. Two of us could sneak in round the back, set a fire and smoke them out. A spell could too easily go wrong.’

‘And a fire won’t go wrong?’ Dee questioned him mildly.

Robert Dudley was looking down the length of the table at me, his dark eyes thoughtful. ‘And what of Marcus Dent?’

Everyone stopped talking and looked at me. My brother was frowning, Alice watching me with a scared expression, John Dee seemingly distracted by the play of sunlight reflected on the white plasterwork. Only Richard was smiling, arms folded as he leaned back in his chair, his confidence in me almost terrifying.

I looked down at the table, intimidated by so many eyes on me at once. There was an odd trail of salt on the table, left over from a recent meal by the look of it.

Slowly I drew a circle in the salt, then a cross within it, thinking out loud. ‘Marcus is not a fool. He is holding a powerful seer in that house and probably already knows we’ll be paying him a visit. The house will be ringed with defensive spells, designed to keep us out and her in. And the only quick way past a protective ring-spell is to be invited inside.’

Robert Dudley glanced sideways at Elizabeth. Their eyes met and I saw her smile, my breath catching at the look in her eyes. They were in love. So deeply in love they might as well have been alone in the room for that instant. And my heart squeezed in pain for the princess. For it was a love that could only lead to unhappiness, the kind that lasts a lifetime.

‘My lady?’ he murmured.

Elizabeth nodded, then stood up, looking at each of us in turn. ‘I have a suggestion for that. But I will need magickal help to make it work.’ She raised her brows at me. ‘Meg?’

The two men on guard at the front entrance to Marcus Dent’s house had been leaning against the wall, one with his arms folded and eyes closed, the other talking to him conspiratorially.

Both men straightened and turned to stare at the sound of approaching horses, then glanced at each other uncertainly. The younger one disappeared into the house; the other lifted the flaming torch from the wall and held it high above his head, no doubt hoping to illuminate the street.

‘Who goes there?’ he called out, though it was clear from his frightened expression that he had a good idea who it was.

Just ahead of me, Richard dismounted. With Robert Dudley two steps behind him, he adjusted the long sword at his belt, then swaggered towards the man on the door.

‘Have you no eyes in your head, sirrah?’ Richard demanded, his tone arrogant. ‘Can you not see who this is?’

The man stared past him at me, still seated on my horse. His eyes widened slightly, then he crossed himself and stepped back into the doorway. ‘I see, yes. But what . . . what do you want?’ he demanded, but there was no longer any threat in his voice. Only fear.

Behind him, several men emerged, pressing forwards in that dark narrow space, all staring towards me. They had come to see if it was true.

I sat straight-backed in the saddle, waiting as news of my arrival raced round the place, whispered at first, denied, confirmed, then called back inside the house, the younger man running back inside with a horrified exclamation.

‘Fools!’ A bearded man studied me through narrowed eyes, then spat over the threshold. ‘That is not the Queen.’

‘Then you are the fool, for it is Her Majesty,’ the younger man insisted in a hoarse whisper, pushing past this doubter to stare at me again. ‘I have seen that face before, and I tell you it is the Queen!’

A roar came from deep within the house – Marcus Dent, roused from whatever hellish pursuits went on in the grim bowels of that house. The men scattered, and suddenly he was there in the doorway, staring like all the rest.

My enemy.

‘It will not work for long,’ Robert Dudley had warned me when Elizabeth first outlined her plan. ‘And the magick must be strong. Even in the dark, there is no chance you could pass for Her Majesty. Not without a spell.’

I had glanced at John Dee for assurance. ‘Sir, you know my power. It is possible for me to disguise myself as Queen Mary, is it not? Though if Master Dudley were to come too, as himself, he would lend credence to our play.’

‘Too dangerous,’ Elizabeth had said at once.

‘My lady, I do not think we need to fear reprisals,’ I had told her. ‘After this night I very much doubt any will dare name Master Dudley as one of this party. Nor any of us, indeed. For who would believe the Queen of England herself to be involved in such a venture? Marcus Dent will not wish his failure to be known by his allies, I am sure, and his men will keep quiet for fear of looking like fools.’

Dee had raised his pale hand. ‘If Meg Lytton says she can do this, then she can do this. The girl has great power, skill beyond even Richard’s reckoning. I have known her speak with spirits and journey in the celestial realm with only the barest knowledge of such high magick.’ His strangely intent gaze moved about the table, then returned to my face. ‘Let me know how I can assist you, and it shall be done. For I am eager to speak to this seeress myself and discover if her powers are true.’

Late in the afternoon, having returned to Dee’s lodgings under cover of dark, I had adapted a complicated spell from my mother’s grimoire – with the disconcerting message, ‘Beware, not long-lasting,’ scribbled in the margin – darkening my hair and altering my features to match what I remembered of the Queen’s appearance.

Then I had knelt in the circle and worked the same magick on Richard, John Dee, and a small handful of Dudley’s loyal servants who had been chosen to accompany us, turning them into a company of Spanish priests and guardsmen.

Once night had fallen, and Elizabeth was safely at dinner with the Queen at Whitehall – her alibi, in case the attack went badly – we had ridden across the city to Marcus Dent’s house, following John Dee’s directions.

Robert Dudley was alone unchanged, for even John Dee had asked to be disguised as a Spanish priest, lest word of this got back to his master, Bishop Bonner.

‘But I am still myself,’ John Dee had exclaimed on seeing himself in a looking glass, in a tone of such severe disappointment that I had to smile.

‘You have not changed. To us, we will look like ourselves, for we are outside the enchantment. But everyone else will see Queen Mary, her priests and attendants, and allow us entry into Marcus Dent’s house without argument.’

Now Marcus Dent himself came forward, almost to my horse, and I saw his face grow pale, staring up at me.

I said nothing but gazed down at him with my most icily regal expression, borrowed from the Lady Elizabeth along with the gown I was wearing.

Then he dropped, his head bowed in obeisance. Marcus Dent, down on his knees to me in the filth of the road. If I had not been so on edge, my gloved hands clutching tightly at the reins, I might almost have laughed.

‘Your Majesty,’ he managed hoarsely, not quite daring to lift his gaze to my face again. ‘Forgive my rough welcome. My name is Master Dent of Oxfordshire, and I am witchfinder to that shire. But perhaps you have been shown sundry of my letters, for I have always been careful to record all my successes and relay them to Your Majesty’s council.’

‘Not all your successes, Master Dent,’ Richard said coldly, putting on a Spanish accent.

‘Señor?’

‘I have heard from Señor Miguel de Pero that you shelter a witch within your walls, Master Dent. If this is true, your life will be forfeit.’

There was a deathly silence, and I wondered if Richard had gone too far, naming one of Marcus’s own allies.

Robert’s eyes met mine, his hand on his sword hilt. We had arranged a signal – the drawing of my hazel wand, secretly tucked up the sleeve of my gown – should a fight look inevitable.

But Marcus still seemed deceived by his unexpected visitors. ‘I hold this girl merely to question her about the Devil before she hangs, señor. That is my business as witchfinder and I do it well. How can it offend?’

‘In that case, Master Dent, you will not object to allowing us entrance,’ I said coldly, ‘so we may satisfy ourselves of the veracity of your claims.’

Now Marcus could smell the lie outright. I saw a flash in his eyes, hurriedly veiled as he glanced about at Dudley’s men, all heavily armed.

‘You wish to look inside my humble dwelling, Your Majesty?’ My skin crawled under his dangerous gaze. ‘But if the señor here wishes to question this girl, he is welcome to enter. There is no need for you to sully your feet with the filth on these cobbles, Your Majesty.’

We were outnumbered, I thought, and saw the same thought in Robert’s face. At that moment John Dee, disguised as a Spanish priest, stumbled as he edged closer to the house. Marcus’s head swung round and he studied Dee for a long moment, narrow-eyed, his nostrils flaring.

I stiffened, suddenly fearful that he could see through the disguise. Marcus and John had been friends at university, after all. But there was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, only a growing fury at this humiliation.

‘Bring her out!’ a man shouted hoarsely from the crowd, which had been steadily growing since our arrival.

‘Yes,’ another yelled from an upstairs window in one of the houses opposite. ‘Let’s see this witch you’ve been keeping hidden in there.’

Robert Dudley folded his arms and looked at Marcus, his brows raised. I felt my hands curl into fists, suddenly excited, the hairs rising on the back of my neck. This was even better than I could have hoped for. We might not even have to trick our way inside the house to rescue Cecilie.

Reluctantly Marcus nodded to his men. ‘Bring up the witch. But keep her gagged and restrained. There are decent folk here.’

I raised my brows. ‘You keep the girl in chains?’

‘She is
dangerous
,’ Marcus stressed angrily, glancing about at the crowd. ‘Forgive my blunt speech, Your Majesty, but in my experience the need for such harsh measures when dealing with a witch is beyond a woman’s comprehension.’

The insult robbed me of breath. I almost drew my wand there and then. Then I saw Richard’s tiny shake of the head and said nothing. But I glared back at Marcus with such venom that it seemed impossible he did not recognize Meg Lytton in the queen before him.

A stir at the door to his house distracted me. I looked up and drew a sharp breath. In the same instant I saw Richard’s instinctive recoil, and heard Dudley curse under his breath.

Cecilie was a tiny creature, thin-faced, her brown eyes huge, her hair so fair it was almost white and shorn close to the head – just as mine had been when Marcus Dent had me arraigned for witchcraft. She looked half a child, her pale skin marked with cuts and bruises, exposed by the torn shift they had dressed her in.

The watching crowd rumbled with disgust and outrage as they strained closer for a better look at the ‘witch’.

‘For shame!’ a woman called out roughly. ‘What have you done to that poor child?’

But one of the men shouted her down with a crude yell of, ‘Look at the shameless witch! Hang her from the nearest tree before she can curse us!’

Then the calls drowned each other out, and a scuffle began somewhere behind us, the fight swiftly put down by our men at a signal from Dudley.

Richard came to me at once, grasping the horse’s bridle. His hand was shaking. I could see a savage fury in his dark eyes. ‘Let us take the seer now,’ he hissed, ‘and cut this villain down where he stands.’

‘No, there are too many witnesses, we must be patient,’ I muttered, hoping Marcus could not hear us.

‘I am sick of being patient,’ Richard spat out, and before I knew what he was about, Dee’s apprentice had reached up and dragged the hazel wand from its hiding place in my sleeve.

Richard spun, a viciously sibilant curse on his lips, using the wand to flatten the two ruffians on either side of the seer.

Taken aback, Robert Dudley had frozen, his hand still on his sword hilt. This was madness. Half the street was watching. His eyes sought mine.

But it was too late to contain the fight.

I cried, ‘Take them!’ and tried to slide down from the saddle, but failed miserably, landing on my knees, tangled up in the folds of my cloak.

Fighting to be free, I heard a shout that terrified me, then the whole street was lit up by a flash of red light.

Richard was thrown violently backwards as though by a lightning strike, arms splayed wide, the wand falling from his open hand.

He did not move again.

Richard
.

I felt sick, staring at him. It would be my fault if he was dead. I had sworn that I could do this and get us away before anyone was hurt. Instead, there was now a good chance none of us would make it out alive. Including Cecilie herself.

There was pure, terrifying chaos in the crowded alleyway. Women were screaming, men yelling for weapons or for the men of the Watch. And above it all, cool and clear, I could hear Robert Dudley issuing orders, no doubt well-used to the confusion of a battlefield.

I crawled on hands and knees towards Richard’s still and silent body, frantically whispering, ‘Don’t be dead, Richard, please don’t be dead.’

Before I could reach him, Marcus Dent was there too, tall, gliding, wrapped in a shroud of black smoke, moving unseen – except by me, it seemed – through the chaos.

I twisted round, scrabbling for the fallen wand.

His booted foot came down hard on the back of my neck, shoving me into filth, closing my mouth on mud.

Ignoring my struggles, he reached down, seized my hand and dragged off my riding glove.

The ring!

I thought he would snap my neck while I lay helpless and thrashing under his boot, the hazel wand lying just out of my reach in the mud. Had he seen it? He had wanted it before . . .

But he could not have noticed the wand. For he was after a greater prize. He drew my mother’s ring from my finger, then let my hand fall back.

‘Now I am invincible,’ he said unsteadily.

Groaning out my horror into foul-tasting mud, I clawed at the filth and wished it was his face. I could hear screams, a horse neighing in terror, and the clash of swords.