Witchstruck (17 page)

I peered out into the hallway. The upstairs rooms were quiet, the stairs deserted. My father had ridden to the village that morning to speak to the priest there, and I guessed that the servants would be about their duties downstairs.

‘No, we are alone.’

‘Then let us not waste any more time. I may not have many days left on this earth. There is a false bottom in the chest at the foot of the bed. Under it, I have hidden some of my old spell books and papers, and a few small instruments of the craft. They will tempt you, but you must not try to keep them safe, for they will bring nothing but death in these dangerous times.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Swear to me that you will burn them when I die, so they cannot lead you to the gallows.’

‘You are not going to die,’ I insisted.

‘Promise! You must promise me this!’

My aunt’s face was so wild, I was almost frightened. I clasped her hand and nodded to calm her. ‘Hush, Aunt Jane. You will make yourself sick. I promise that I will burn them.’

Aunt Jane lapsed into a terrible coughing fit. When it was
over
, she gestured weakly to the healing draught I had wished her to take. ‘Give me a good spoonful of that brew, Meg. And mix it with honey, to take away the bitterness.’

My hand shook as I measured out the strong-smelling draught and mixed it with honey.

‘Now,’ my aunt said afterwards, licking the sweetness from her dry lips, ‘you know what to do when I am gone, and I can die content.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed in horror, and cast about for some reason that might persuade her to fight this wasting sickness. ‘You cannot die, Aunt Jane. Who will teach me the craft if you are not here?’

Aunt Jane smiled, and fell back against her pillows. ‘I have already taught you everything a young witch should know, Meg. The rest you must teach yourself.’

Near the end of February, my brother and cousin returned from the Low Countries, where they had been studying together – or so they told my father, glancing hard at me as though daring me to contradict their story. I had no interest in betraying them as rebels against the Catholic regime, so said nothing. But I was worried to see them back in England again, for I knew they would soon attempt to draw me into their scheming.

Sure enough, they had not been back at home three days before I caught Malcolm in my room, searching through my possessions.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I demanded, and my cousin had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Please leave my room before I call my father.’

‘I’m going,’ he muttered, but suddenly caught at my arm as he passed and swung me to face him. ‘Tell me true, and then I’ll go – do you have anything here from Elizabeth that we could use to further our cause abroad? Some kind of token, a gift or letter . . . anything with the princess’s name or initials on it?’

‘Let me go, Malcolm.’

My cousin looked angry and frustrated, but released me nonetheless, perhaps responding to the strength in my voice.

‘You do not understand, Meg. These men will not move against Mary without some reassurance of Elizabeth’s support. And they get more restless the longer we delay. We have heard such terrible things about Elizabeth in the Low Countries. That she has abandoned her father’s beliefs, that she feeds priests like friends at her own table, and hears Mass three times a day. That she is as devout a Catholic as her sister and will burn every one of us who does not turn to Rome when she comes to the throne.’ He stared at me. ‘You have lived with the princess most of the past year. Are these stories true?’

‘The Lady Elizabeth is no fool,’ I told him coldly. ‘She has no wish to burn as a heretic. She kneels and takes Mass, and yes, she keeps the priests Queen Mary sent to watch her. But she is no more a Catholic than you are.’

Malcolm nodded slowly, as though the truth of this had penetrated his barriers of distrust and hatred. ‘So the stories are false. I am glad of it. It helps to know that we can still count on Elizabeth to rid our country of Catholics if this Papist Queen and her husband are removed from the throne.’

‘I did not say that.’ I opened the door wide in a silent invitation for him to leave my room. ‘Now I have answered your questions, Malcolm, so please go. There are no tokens or letters here that you can use to gain support in the Low Countries, and nothing more that we can say to each other.’

My cousin turned to go, yet hung back in the doorway, looking hard at me. ‘Those priests at Woodstock . . . I saw you with one of them in the summer.’

I stared at him, my breathing suddenly constricted as I remembered seeing his face amongst the leaves. I wondered again what game he was playing. ‘I know, I saw you watching us down by the river. What were you doing there? Spying on me? Or on Elizabeth? Is there no end to your plotting and intriguing, Malcolm? Did you see whatever you went there to see?’

‘I saw you and that young Catholic priest kissing,’ he said, on a note of accusation.

‘Kissing?’ My face was scarlet now. I found myself stuttering, falling over the words, barely able to speak coherently. ‘You saw me . . .
kissing
. . . Alejandro? No, no, a thousand times no!’

‘That’s what it looked like to me.’

‘Then you must be blind.
Alejandro?
No, I would never kiss . . . I would rather . . . Anyway, he’s not even a priest yet,’ I spluttered, giving up on the whole ludicrous discussion. I slammed the door shut in my cousin’s astonished face. ‘He’s still in training.’

Marcus Dent came to our house one afternoon the following week. I hung over the stairs and watched my father welcome him into his study, then the door closed and I could not hear their conversation.

I was surprised to see Marcus at Lytton Park. Surely the witchfinder could not still wish to marry me? My father had asked about my time at Woodstock when I arrived home, but had not mentioned Joan’s accusation of witchcraft, so I assumed that Marcus Dent had not yet informed him. No doubt Marcus would be telling him now, and relishing every unpleasant detail.

I sat upstairs with my aunt, who was sleeping. Her colour was a little better than it had been. But all the time I was waiting for the summons which I knew must come.

It was nearly two hours before I heard a servant come up the stairs and scratch at my aunt’s door. I opened it and knew instantly from the woman’s nervous face that Marcus Dent had asked for me.

‘Your father wants to see you in his study,’ she told me with a quick curtsey, then went in to sit with my
aunt
in my absence. I did not like Aunt Jane to be left alone for any length of time, her strength having so nearly left her.

In my father’s study, I found Marcus Dent standing at the hearth, his arm laid along the mantel, one boot outstretched to the heat. It was a damp and chilly day in early March, and the logs had been piled high for my father’s guest; they must have been fresh-cut in his honour too, for they were spitting and smoking busily, the room a little foggy.

Marcus turned as I came in, and took a full moment to look me up and down before bowing, his narrowed blue eyes a little sharper than I remembered.

‘Meg,’ he said as I curtseyed in return, using my name with easy familiarity. ‘Living with royalty must suit you. You seemed but a girl when I saw you at Woodstock. You have grown into a fine young woman.’ He hesitated when I did not reply. ‘Do you not recall our last meeting there? Some foolish girl had accused you of . . .’ His brittle smile grew even colder. ‘Ah, but I see from your face that you remember the occasion perfectly. I shall say nothing further to upset you. How are you, Meg?’

‘I am well, sir, I thank you.’

‘That is good to hear. But I believe your father wishes us to speak alone for a moment.’

I looked at my father, who coughed and left the room without a word. I stared after him in disbelief. What had
Marcus
said to make my father leave me alone with this unpleasant man? I remembered our conversation at Woodstock and grew horribly uneasy. Had Marcus threatened to expose me as a witch if my father did not press me to marry him?

Once we were alone together, Marcus came towards me and put a finger under my chin, lifting my face towards his. He had never done such a thing before, so openly and deliberately touching me, and suddenly I was afraid. My first instinct was to call out for my father, though I knew it must be useless to do so. He would never have left us alone together if he had felt there was any choice in the matter.

The struggle must have shown in my face, for Marcus laughed, rather brutally, and shook his head. ‘No, you are right not to call for your father. Even if he came, he would do nothing. You are on your own in this, my dear. On your own . . . with me.’

Marcus bent and kissed me firmly on the lips, holding me by the shoulders so that I could not escape without losing my dignity by fighting him. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but it left me cold. Marcus’s kiss could not touch what I had experienced when Alejandro had merely brushed his lips against mine.

‘I still intend to marry you,’ Marcus said, and laughed again at my shocked expression. ‘Did you ever doubt it? Why, because I stayed away from Woodstock while you were there?’ He shook his head. ‘Our separation was unimportant.
I
knew I would eventually gain your father’s blessing of our marriage, so there was no hurry for us to wed. Indeed, it will be useful for my future wife to have experienced some degree of life at a noble level, for I shall take you to court once we are married. But do not worry. I will bring you home once you are safely with child, for my son must be born here in Oxfordshire.’

I opened my mouth to refuse, but could not seem to speak. My lips moved but nothing came out. I had been left speechless, like someone under a spell. Marcus was still smiling as he fetched a chair for me.

‘Here,’ he murmured, helping me to sit down. ‘Sit quiet and breathe slow. I cannot allow my bride-to-be to hurt herself. Your father has agreed that I can fix a date for our wedding. Easter will be an excellent time. Do you not agree?’

Gently, his hand brushed my cheek, and I stared up at him, his words slowly trickling into my head.
Your father has agreed that I can fix a date for our wedding
. I tried to comprehend them but could not. My father could not have made such a deal with Marcus Dent. He knew what kind of man Marcus was, how his previous young wives had suffered and died in childbirth. My father loved me. He would never force me into such a marriage, whatever threats Marcus made against our family. It must be a mistake.

‘Marcus, I cannot marry you.’

His fierce slap took me by surprise, knocking me from
the
chair. I lay face down on the rushes, holding my burning cheek, barely able to breathe.

Dent kneeled beside me. His voice hardened. ‘Don’t be stupid, Meg. Your father has given his consent for us to wed next month, and that is an end to the matter. You do not have a choice. You only make a fool of yourself by persisting in denying my suit. And see what else happens when you do that?’ He pushed the fallen hair back from my cheek and turned me over onto my back so he could examine me, ignoring my whimper of protest. ‘Your beautiful face is bruised and ugly now.’ He made a furious sound under his breath. ‘That makes me angry, Meg. I want you to look your best for our wedding. But I shall not hesitate to strike you again if you do not agree to be my wife.’

It occurred to me for the first time that Marcus Dent was mad. Either mad or utterly evil.

Gathering all my courage, I managed to shake my head, whispering, ‘I shall never be your wife, Marcus.’

His angry blue eyes narrowed on my face. ‘Is that so?’

For the first time I felt real fear. Was he about to hit me again as he had promised? Or worse?

I sucked in a breath to call for my father, but Marcus was too quick, grinding his lips against mine before I could make a sound.

I pushed at his shoulders and tried to drag my mouth away from his. But it was no use. He held me still with one hand at my throat, his body pinioning me to the floor. He
was
far stronger than I had realized, and without my voice I could do nothing to influence him.

‘Meg,’ he muttered against my mouth.

He yanked at the bodice of my gown, revealing more of my breasts than was respectable. I felt him hesitate there, perhaps seeing the unsightly birthmark on my left breast. Then he groped for my skirts, touching me in a vile way that left me shaking and miserable. That was when I guessed what he intended. I was frozen in shock and horror, lying like a wooden doll beneath him.

My father’s wolfhound, which had been dozing by the hearth all this time, leaped up and began to bark hysterically, seeing me with Dent on the floor.

As though he had been waiting in the hall for some signal, the door was flung open and my father came in. He stopped dead at the sight of Dent on top of me.

‘Master Dent!’ he choked.

Dent rolled away from me, straightened his rumpled coat and got back to his feet. He was breathing hard, his face a dark red.

‘This little witch refuses to marry me,’ he said violently, as though this was an excuse for what he had done. ‘She refuses the protection of my name and wealth. I warned you, Lytton, what would happen if she refused me.’

My father shook his head, and there was open panic in his face. ‘No, Dent. For pity’s sake, let me speak to her first.’

‘It is too late for that.’ Marcus Dent left the room, the
wolfhound
still barking at his heels. ‘Get down!’

I half expected my father to comfort me once my attacker had left, to help me back to my feet and tidy my clothing. But he did neither of those things. Instead, my father stood in the doorway in silence, perhaps still hoping that Marcus Dent would return and claim me as his bride. Then he turned to stare at me, his hands clenched into fists.

‘You wretched little fool!’ my father managed, his voice strangled. ‘You have no idea what you’ve done. That man could ruin us with his tales of witchcraft.’

I pushed myself to my knees, but could not speak. My throat was still aching from Marcus Dent’s vicious grip.