The Return of the Witch (13 page)

“Then, what? Why take Tegan? What can you want from the girl that would make you go to these lengths?”

“She is a girl no more, or hadn't you noticed? She is a woman and, what is more, she is a witch. You should be proud of her. Your prodigy has excelled, despite your absence.”

“I had no choice but to leave her.”

“Oh, we all have choices, Bess. We are lying to ourselves if we think otherwise.”

“You have no right to inflict your own “choices” on others. What can you hope to achieve by making Tegan your prisoner and bringing her here?”

Gideon, for I could not think of him as anyone other, took a step closer to me. My instincts screamed at me to flee or, at the very least, to move away. He was so close now I could smell the heat of his body, almost taste the salt of him on my lips. He looked at my hair and slowly and gently touched the snow-white streak that ran through it.

“This rather suits you, don't you think? True magic often leaves its mark at the moment it is acquired. You do remember that moment, don't you Bess, hmm? You had a choice then. You could have gone meekly to the gallows as your poor mother did. A noble death, I'm sure. But you chose to use what I had taught you. You chose to call me, Bess. How did it feel, I wonder, that first time, that instant when you felt … when you
truly felt
what it meant to give yourself, body and soul, to the most powerful magic that exists? You must have thought about it since many, many times.” When I did not answer him he sighed, almost sadly, and let his hand drop by his side. “We could have been
magnificent
together, you and I. Had it not been for your misguided sense of right and wrong. I blame your mother. She was a fair witch, I don't deny that, but pious, almost self-righteously so. It was her undoing. It was nearly yours.”

“I chose not to go to you.”

“You lost your nerve and ran away. Baying dogs and a mob can make a person do that.”

“I ran from you!”

He shook his head, turning slowly as he did so and beginning to walk away. “I don't think so, Bess,” he said, as he moved farther into the cover of the night. “I think you ran away from yourself that night. I have been trying to help you find your way back all this time. Can't you see that?” As he finished his question, he vanished altogether.

I took a step forward. “Wait! Tell me what it is you want of me! Let Tegan go free and I will strike a bargain with you. Where are you keeping her?”

But he was gone, melted into the blackness, disappeared as swiftly and silently as if he had been a ghost himself.

By the next morning I had formulated a plan. Frustratingly, I was no nearer discerning Gideon's motives for his actions, but I now knew what name he used. I also had a sense that he wanted me to find him. That it was all part of the game he insisted we play, to whatever end. As soon as Erasmus was up I told him what had happened the night before. He was understandably shocked to hear of Gideon's visit, and chided me for not calling him for help. He meant well, but he did not understand the manner of being with whom we were dealing. It was me Gideon came to talk to. Anyone else he would have considered an inconvenient interruption. Who knows what he might have done to rid himself of Erasmus's unwanted presence. I explained that I needed to go into the town again. It was market day, though I understood that in this time of war such a day was not the bustling, sociable event of times past. Even so, I reasoned that more people and more activity would afford me some measure of cover, as I would not be so easy to spot as in a half-empty street. Erasmus agreed to accompany me and ask questions where he could. If Gideon was residing in the town he had to have acquired a house of some sort. Someone would know about it.

The storm had left the roads in the small town deep with mud and puddles, churned to further mess by carts and wagons and beasts being brought to market. It was indeed a sad affair compared to the cheerful, prosperous days I remembered from my childhood. What stalls there were carried few wares. There was precious little by way of livestock, save a few scrawny cows, a handful of pigs who were really too young and too weak to fetch a good price or make good meals beyond sausages, and baskets of molting hens destined for the pot, as people's needs were too pressing to rely upon eggs that might never be forthcoming. There was a noticeable lack of men among the market-goers, an imbalance all too common, and familiar to me, in times of war. As soon as a boy was able—thirteen, fourteen perhaps—he would march off to join his older brothers or his father, and the family would be left depleted. One person fewer to guide the plough, to tend the cattle, to reap what harvest there was. And the women and children, the sick and the elderly, left to defend themselves from those other scourges of such troubled times—looters, bandits, deserters, and indeed the armies themselves. For fighting men can neither march nor fight without first being fed, and they will take what they find where they find it, often leaving families to starve in their wake.

Everywhere I looked was evidence of poverty and hardship. Two small children sat at the side of the road, their clothes rags, their faces dirty, their cheeks not rosy or plump, their eyes watchful. The smallest was crying, not a lusty wail, but dry, gulping sobs. The older one stooped and picked up a wet stone, wiping it on her sleeve before passing it to her sibling who put it in her mouth and sucked, for moisture and comfort, an old trick to fool the belly. But hunger is a persistent foe and will not be diverted by such ruses for long. I paused and took from my bag the baked biscuits I had with me. Aloysius burrowed deeper beneath the empty cloth I left inside. The waifs hesitated for only an instant before snatching the food from me and gobbling it down. Three more children standing a way off noticed something of interest was taking place and started toward us. The young girls, fearful of being robbed of their precious biscuits, ran away, darting into the crowd that was forming in the middle of the high street. Erasmus took my arm.

“We should not draw attention to ourselves,” he reminded me.

I glanced about, searching the desultory crowd, but could neither see Gideon nor sense his presence. I was aware of people looking at me with interest, or was I imagining it? How could I search and not be seen? It was an impossible task! Erasmus steered me to a stall peddling produce.

“Wait here,” he told me. When I protested he raised his hand. “Sister,” he insisted, loud enough for listening ears to hear, “I have business to see to. Mind your kitchen, woman.” The rebuke was enough to render us normal; family members exchanging short words in the stress of the times. I bowed my head to examine the vegetables on offer, peering from beneath my bonnet to watch my “brother” make his way over to the door of the inn. He was right, of course. It would be easier for him to ask questions, and easier still to obtain answers from those who had been enjoying the hospitality of the inn.

The stall-holder, an aged man with few teeth and a bulbous nose, narrowed his eyes at me.

“I'll take some carrots,” I told him. “And onions.”

He held out his hand without a word. It seemed the times had robbed people of all trust and civility. I pressed a few small coins into his grubby palm. When he waited I added another. With a grunt he pocketed the payment and handed me my purchases. I stowed them in my bag, hoping Aloysius would not have nibbled his way through the greater part before we returned home. My task complete, I browsed the other market stalls, feigning interest where in truth all I wished to do was grab people by their collars and shake whatever information they might have right out of them. More than once I caught myself being stared at. Some of the faces were worryingly familiar to me. How long would it be before the whispers started? And I well knew where whispers led; where slyly voiced fears ran on to become a collective outcry. What if Erasmus and William were right, and the beleaguered people of Batchcombe craved a focus for the ills they had suffered? Witches had made acceptable sacrifices before, why not now? The deeper I moved through the crowd, the more convinced I became that people were indeed talking about me, staring, pointing. My pulse raced. I knew only too well how quickly a mob could turn on a person. It was with no small relief that I saw Erasmus threading his way between the market-goers, hastening back to me.

He took my arm. “Come, sister,” he said, then, beneath his breath, “It seems Mister Masters, or rather Mister Grimsteeds, has made no attempt to keep his whereabout secret. I easily discovered the details of where he is staying. He has rented a modest merchant's house not two streets from here. And he resides there with his young niece.” As he spoke he led me away down the high street, and soon we had turned a corner into a narrow alley. I was all for hurrying on, but he still had hold of my arm and turned me to face him.

“What if it is a trap?” he wanted to know.

I shrugged. “It almost certainly is. If Gideon has made no effort to conceal his residence from us, he will be expecting me to go there. But I cannot let that fact stop me. I heard Tegan calling me.”

“Huh! Another of Gideon's illusions.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, I must go toward where I believe her to be. There is no other course possible.”

He regarded me carefully. It struck me that he was genuinely protective toward me, despite our brief acquaintance. I understood then that he must see me in some measure as his responsibility. He acted as my Time Stepper. He brought me here. How far would this duty of care extend? I wondered.

We walked a short way farther and came to a handsome timbered house. The style was typical of the day. The lower part was brick, an expensive material denoting the wealth and status of the owner of the house. The upper levels of this three-story dwelling were constructed of black beams in pleasing patterns contrasting with smart, white-painted plasterwork. The windows had leaded glass and were constructed to protrude at the front so that they overhung the street below. From the roof towered slender chimneys; the most modern innovations, showing the resident of the property to be not only prosperous but living à la mode. The fact that the owner was gone away suggested that the conflict the country now shuddered beneath had unseated and unsettled even such a successful person as might have built this house only a few years before.

I stepped up to the broad front door and lifted the ornate iron knocker. The sound of it rapping against the lacquered wood echoed down the hall inside. After a short wait the door was opened. If I had formed any expectation of who might be the gatekeeper it had been perhaps a doughty housekeeper, or a burly manservant. I was surprised, therefore, to find myself looking at two tall young women, each the mirror of the other. They were very slender, and had long, dark hair, which they did not secure with pins nor cover with caps. I realized that these must have been the women I had seen walking with Gideon. They were pretty enough, but there was something disturbing about them. I sensed an unhealthy, unstable element in their presence. It was not uncommon to find twins whose movements and gestures were synchronized, but this felt extreme and somewhat obsessive with these girls.

“We are looking for Master Noa Grimsteeds,” I told them. “We understand this to be the property where he is currently residing.”

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't,” the twins replied in singsong unison. Despite the pleasantness of their voices they exhibited all the warmth of a December dawn.

“Master Grimsteeds and his … niece,” I went on, faltering at the description. “Are we correct in thinking they live here?”

“Who wants to know?” one twin demanded. The pair stepped forward so that they filled the doorway, allowing me no possibility of slipping past and entering the house uninvited. They folded their arms pointedly.

I was in danger of losing my temper. I had not come this far to have my way barred by two sullen teenage girls. I opened my mouth to remonstrate with them, but Erasmus stepped forward.

“Your caution does you credit, my ladies,” he told them with a smile. “These are dangerous times. I am certain the master of the house would applaud the diligent caution you show on his behalf.”

The twin on the left, who was, on closer inspection, fractionally shorter and frailer than her sister, looked Erasmus up and down slowly. She and her twin exchanged glances and then giggled.

“Well, sir,” said the taller of the two, “he has a high regard for us and we for him. When we are left in charge of his house and his affairs, we take our responsibility very seriously,” she told him, although her expression was more coquettish than serious.

“As is evidenced by your refusal to converse with strangers. Indeed, why should you? Allow me to introduce myself—Erasmus Balmoral, miller, your servant, madam, madam,” he said with a showy bow that almost made me laugh. Erasmus pressed on. “This is my sister, Widow Carmichael, come lately to visit me. She and Master Grimsteeds have a long-standing acquaintance. I am certain he would want the opportunity of enjoying a visit from her while she is in the area.”

The girls gave me a cursory glance before returning their attention to Erasmus. He was shamelessly flattering them with every word and gesture, and they were both enjoying his attention very much.

The taller one smiled at him as she said, “This is his house, sir, but the master is not at home at present.”

“Ah, a pity.” Erasmus shook his head and then smiled again. “Fortunately we are not in any great hurry and would be happy to wait upon his return.”

“Oh, we couldn't…” began the smaller twin.

Erasmus gently waved aside her protest, quick to spot which sister appeared the leader and which the follower, which might prove more stubborn, and which more easily persuaded. “Come now, madam, such a sincere and cautious people as your good self, as your good
selves,”
he corrected himself, though I understood his mistake: It was hard to think of them as separate beings. “Clearly people of such sound judgment could not possibly turn away someone the master of the house would wish very much to see. Not when we are so content to wait.” Seeing the women's resolve waver he went on, “It would be a pity indeed were he to learn of Widow Carmichael leaving Batchcombe without having had the opportunity of calling upon him again … would it not?”