Witchstruck (18 page)

My father called his wolfhound to heel. ‘I never thought I would say this of my own flesh and blood, but I hope Dent catches you playing witch next time and you hang for it!’

Then he flung himself out of the house, his parting words burning themselves into my memory like a brand.

TWELVE

Devil Worship

THE NEXT MORNING
, we were woken just before dawn by a hammering at the front door of Lytton Park. I ran out of my room, and saw Malcolm and Will, sleepy-eyed and still in their nightgowns, emerging from their own room at the end of the corridor. My father came out looking shocked and haggard. Dragging off his woollen nightcap, he stared down into the shadowy hall, then turned to Will and Malcolm. The three men spoke in urgent whispers at the top of the stairs, as though trying to decide what to do. Then one of the servants stumbled down with a candle to open the door, and was knocked aside by Dent and a mob of angry, torch-carrying men.

‘Where is she?’ one of the older men demanded hoarsely as they all poured into the hall. ‘Where is the witch?’

Ashen-faced, my father hurried downstairs to face the intruders. He stood his ground at the bottom of the stairs, dragging a long black coat about his crumpled night-clothes. ‘What are you doing in my home? Who gave you the right to come bursting in here at this hour? Master Dent, I demand an explanation!’

But his exclamations fell thin as the men held their
flickering
torches aloft and Dent came forward without answering.

The expression on his lean face was menacing, a thick pikestaff in his hand. His blue gaze glittering with malice, the witchfinder looked first at my brother’s dumbfounded expression, then at my cousin. At last he saw me standing behind my father and pointed a long accusing finger in my direction.

‘You!’

I felt my knees almost go from under me, remembering how Dent had seized me yesterday and how powerless I had been to stop him. This must be what my father warned me of when he said I had ruined the family. Was Dent’s revenge to have me strung up as a witch?

‘Speak!’ he insisted. ‘Where is your aunt?’

This I had not expected. His demand left me speechless and stricken with horror. My aunt? I had thought him here to arrest me as a witch, to have me dragged away for humiliating him.

‘Aunt Jane is sick. You cannot believe she is a witch. She has not even left her bed since before Christmas!’

‘Since Christmas, you say?’ Dent turned to the older man beside him, nodding significantly. ‘You see, Lawson? Did I not say she had a hand in your youngest grandchild’s drowning, back in December? And now this new tragedy in the village.’

My father was staring. ‘What are you talking about? What new tragedy?’

‘Little Alice Butterworth died yesterday morning. Not a mark on her when they found her poor little body. No, nor a fever when she was put to bed.’ Dent looked up at me, a malicious light in his blue eyes. ‘What is that, I ask you, but the work of a witch? A devil-worshipper!’

‘Aye,’ several of the men agreed, beginning to seethe and mutter amongst themselves. One of them stared so hard at me that I suddenly feared for my own neck too. These men were angry and frightened, and they would take my aunt and hang her from the nearest tree if I could not settle them.

I held out a hand. ‘Please, good sirs,’ I began, using my strongest voice, ‘this is a mistake. My aunt is no witch but a sick woman who has not left her bed nor even looked outside her window for nigh on three months now. I beg of you to leave this house and not come back, for there are no witches here.’

For a moment, there was silence in the hall, broken only by the spitting and guttering of the torches. To my intense relief I knew my power had worked on them. Their madness had been contained and they would now listen to reason again.

Marcus Dent seemed untouched by my voice though. Perhaps he had been waiting for it, expecting it. Whatever the truth, he was able to resist, and that proved my undoing. He breathed deep and shook off my influence like a man shrugging off a heavy coat, then pointed once again up the stairs.

‘Friends, do not listen to the Lytton girl!’ he called out and turned to gaze steadily at each man in turn. His eyes seemed to burn into their souls. ‘This girl is but a child, she says whatever she must to protect her aunt. Jane Canley is a witch who has murdered these poor babes for her master the Devil’s delight, and she shall hang for her crimes in the sight of God.’ His voice strengthened, just as mine had done before, as though seeking to influence the crowd. ‘Now, let us fetch this filthy witch down and take her back with us to face her trial. Who’s with me?’

The rabble of men, encouraged by Marcus Dent’s voice, surged past my father and his protesting servants. For a few moments there was chaos, everyone jostling together on the stairs, my father shouting dire warnings of reprisals to come, a serving maid screaming hysterically somewhere below us.

One of Dent’s men must have knocked my head against the wooden banister in his furious rush, for I collapsed onto the stairs, losing my senses briefly. I was lucky not to be trampled underfoot. When I opened my eyes again, it was to see them half dragging, half carrying my terrified, white-faced aunt down the stairs, her pale feet and legs showing under her bedgown.

‘Meg . . .!’ she cried.

Then my aunt was gone, and the shouting men with her, one of them spitting deliberately on the floor as he passed the threshold.

My father stood looking down at me when the door had closed behind them. He said bitterly, ‘This is your fault, Meg. You should not have refused Master Dent’s offer of marriage. Now do you see what comes of playing the witch? Your aunt has been dragged away to her death and our family is disgraced.’

He trod heavily back to his bedchamber and slammed the door. My brother and cousin had already disappeared back into their shared bedchamber, perhaps fearing to be taken by Dent’s men too, or to hide any seditious literature they might be harbouring.

Shocked and silent, the servants melted away one by one into the kitchen and the downstairs rooms to begin their day, as if nothing had happened. Though one girl made a sign against the evil eye as she slipped past, no doubt suspecting, like the other servants, that my aunt was not the only witch in the house.

I sank down on the stairs in the dawn light and stared at the blood on my fingers. It must have come from a wound on my head, though I could feel no pain.

What was the use of my gift if I could not use it to save the one person in the world whom I truly loved?

I wanted to weep for Aunt Jane but the tears would not come. Instead, my teeth ground together, my fists clenched so tight that my nails bit into my skin. My heart beat with a cold, smouldering fury. I was hurt by my father’s anger, but I knew he was right. If I had not refused to marry
Marcus
Dent, my aunt would still be safe in bed and our family would not be the talk of the county.

Now Aunt Jane would be hanged as a witch, and it was all my fault.

The first thing to be done was to hunt out my aunt’s hidden books of the magick arts and burn them. When the fire had been kindled downstairs, I levered up the false bottom of her clothes chest and brought out the last few trophies of her art. Bundling them into a cloth, I carried the books and instruments down to the fire. I was taking a chance, knowing I might be seen. But the deed had to be done, and swiftly too, before Marcus Dent came back for me.

To my relief, there was no one about. Perhaps everyone was lying low after the misery of this morning’s cruel visit. The fire was soon crackling merrily as I fed it slim volumes filled with strange symbols and Latin writing, a faceless wooden doll, some kind of stick with feathers bound to it, and a pack of hand-painted cards whose significance I did not understand.

I disliked disposing of magickal items in this hurried, unceremonious way. The books in particular I would have liked to study before burning them. But at any moment, Marcus Dent might return with his gang, having wrung some terrible confession from my poor aunt about the whereabouts of her books. So into the fire they went. The smoke turned a dirty grey from the paper, then
a
bright green as it consumed the painted cards, and finally my hands were empty.

I turned at a creaking sound, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest. It was my father. He had come into the hall without a sound and was standing only a few feet away, watching in silence.

I forced myself to remain calm. Here I was, kneeling on the hearth, the smouldering remnants of my aunt’s books and belongings still clearly visible amongst the flame-engulfed logs. My father had seen what I was doing, that I was burning the evidence of her witchcraft. But even as I tried to reassure myself that my own father would not betray me, I remembered what he had shouted the night before.

I hope Dent catches you playing witch next time, Meg, and you hang for it!

My father must know what my aunt had been at such pains to hide, I thought – not only that Aunt Jane was a witch, but that she had been teaching me her craft. Though that last could hardly have come as a shock, given that Marcus had already told him of my questioning at Woodstock.

My father moved closer to the smoking fire, his face twisted in a kind of grimace. I wondered if he was about to condemn me for having followed my aunt into witchcraft. But he surprised me when he spoke, his voice heavy with pain. ‘Your aunt will not survive this accusation. Dent will see to that. He is determined to punish us for your refusal.
But
you have some small protection against him now.’

I got to my feet, looking at him uncertainly.

‘The Lady Elizabeth favours you,’ my father explained. ‘You must use that influence to shelter yourself from Dent’s anger. He will not dare to touch you while she keeps you with her at Woodstock. Dent likes to visit the court occasionally, and I believe he is considered by some there to be a philosopher as well as a witchfinder. But if Queen Mary were to die . . .’

He hesitated, and I realized that my brother Will had come into the room and was watching us.

‘Go on,’ Will said roughly.

‘If the Lady Elizabeth came to the throne,’ my father continued more carefully, ‘Marcus Dent would not wish to be out of favour with the new Queen.’

‘Elizabeth would not protect me,’ I protested.

‘Yet she keeps you close at Woodstock,’ my father pointed out sharply, then straightened, his features guarded once more. ‘That shows some favour. You must return there at once and beg for her protection. Do not stay at Lytton Park even another day. Dent will be too busy to follow you.’

‘But what of my aunt?’ I felt hot tears prick my eyes and was angry at myself for that weakness. I looked at Will for help, thinking my brother would surely understand my pain, for Aunt Jane had been like a mother to him too. ‘I cannot abandon her. I must do something.’

‘There is nothing anyone can do for Aunt Jane now,’ Will said huskily. ‘Except pray for her soul.’

His words reminded me of Alejandro. Suddenly, I wished the young Spaniard were there in the room, holding my hand. Someone I could trust and confide in. My heart felt as though it had swollen in my chest to twice or three times its normal size and was pushing now against my ribs with a deep, aching hurt that almost stopped me breathing.

Dent had taken my aunt away from me, and I would never see her again. She would never survive the cruel torture of his inquisition. She would never come back to us.

‘Perhaps if the Lady Elizabeth were to write a letter asking for our aunt to be pardoned . . .’ My brother hesitated, then shook his head at his own bold suggestion. ‘No, it would do no good. The princess has no power at Woodstock. She stands accused of treason and is a mere prisoner herself. She will have no power until she comes to the throne. Besides, Dent will allow no one to get in his way.’

I stared at Will. ‘It’s worth the attempt though, isn’t it?’

Will looked back at me consideringly, his head on one side. ‘I’m not sure. In truth, only you can answer that question, for you know the princess better than us.’

I thought about it, remembering how deferential Marcus had been with the princess. ‘It’s true that Marcus seemed in awe of the Lady Elizabeth when he came to Woodstock,’ I mused, and felt a prickling along my scalp as though of
excitement
or possibly fear. ‘Perhaps you are right, Will. Perhaps Dent would listen if the princess wrote and asked him to spare Aunt Jane.’

My father raised his eyebrows at the two of us. ‘You understand nothing about Marcus Dent if you truly believe that.’

Anger flared through me. ‘I understand he is an evil man and ought to be stopped.’

‘Go and ask the Lady Elizabeth then,’ my father told me coldly, and turned away. ‘Try and save your aunt if you must. But do not waste your time coming home again when you fail, for the house will be empty. I do not intend to be attacked by my neighbours for harbouring a witch under my roof, and nor does your brother. We plan to make a trip abroad together and stay there until . . . until it is safe to return.’

‘You’re leaving Lytton Park?’ I demanded, astonished, looking from him to Will.

Suddenly I was afraid, not only for my aunt, but for my father and brother, and even for myself. This was the first time I had ever known my father leave his ancestral home at Lytton Park for more than a few days. He would certainly not have made that decision unless he felt all our lives were in danger. But if he and Will were no longer in Oxfordshire, who would try to spare my aunt? I knew the answer, but dreaded the truth of it. Unless I asked the princess for help, as Will had suggested, my aunt would surely die.

‘Do you have a better way for me to avoid the shame and dishonour that have befallen us?’ My father glanced at Will, and it seemed to me that a message passed silently between them. ‘Tell the housekeeper we will be leaving in a day or two, Will. Your cousin can travel with us to the Low Countries if he wishes. I know he has no love for this country any more.’

‘And what of my aunt?’ I asked helplessly.