The Witch in the Lake (17 page)

The cloaked man held her down by the shoulders. He thrust his face over hers. She could smell the garlic and meat on his breath. ‘And what have
you
got for us then, girlie?'

His hands were on her throat. Big hard hands. She could feel the callouses on his palms. His fingers met and overlapped round her neck.

‘Snap you like a stick, couldn't I?'

Merilee's fingers scrabbled along the dirt. She felt the handle of her basket. Now the rough wool of the blanket. Under, under, deeper, below the dress, in there, the sharp point of the knife.

‘Look here!' shouted the bigger man, and he leaned over and flicked Merilee's hand from the basket. He pulled out the gold necklace from underneath the red velvet dress, and dangled it on the edge of the knife.

‘Well, little lady, how kind of you to bring us your jewellery. We've collected quite a treasure tonight, eh, Carlo?'

Merilee felt the man's hands loosen around her throat as he turned to examine the necklace. She tried to sit up, but the man Carlo pushed her down, hard.

Her mind was blank with terror. She stared at the dark. And then one of Isabella's songs stole into her mind. It was a witchy song, nightmarish—they'd made it up to scare each other. She began to chant it, a whisper at first, and then louder, as loud as the blood screaming in her veins.

‘
Hemlock, mandrake, seed of fire
,

Bring Black Death, a funeral pyre
.

Mugwort, nightshade, the devil's eye
,

Drink my brew, scum, choke and
die!'

Carlo was backing away on his knees, staring at her, a hand still gripping her ankle. She sat upright, pushing towards him until her eyes were level with his. Joining her index fingers together, she made the sign of the Order, pointing straight and spear-like at his forehead.

‘
Hemlock, mandrake, seed of fire
,' she chanted.

‘Carlo,' hissed the second man. He pointed to the basket. On the leather clasp there was the wing-shaped W of the Order.

Merilee heard Carlo draw in his breath. The other man then held up the knife, the gold necklace still hanging from it. He showed the handle where the sign was engraved in silver.

‘Wise Women, Carlo, she's one of them—she's putting a spell on us.'

‘
Bring Black Death, a funeral pyre
. . .' Merilee murmured on, as if in a trance.

‘They're witches, I've heard it, they drink bat's blood—'

‘They can kill a pig just by looking at it—'

‘Steal your manhood—'

‘
Wise Women, witches, devil's work we do
,

Mixing up the poisons of a demon's brew—
'

Merilee felt the blood pounding through her heart as she chanted. But she held her voice strong and low, and as she sang the rushing fear began to flower into a fire of exhilaration that spread through her veins like wine.

She watched the men crawl away, their hands raised in terror. The necklace dropped in the grass, the knife was thrown point down in the dirt. Still she kept chanting, making the sign at them as they retreated down the hill.

Then she gathered up her necklace and knife and the red velvet dress, packing them all into the basket. She was so awake now, she could have marched to Florence and back one hundred and fifty times.

‘How do you feel this morning?' Leo asked his father as soon as he woke up.

‘What day is it?'

‘Saturday.'

‘Has a whole week gone by?'

‘Almost. Would you like a cup of water?'

‘Yes, please. Was Francesca here, or did I dream it?'

Leo called back from the cistern in the kitchen. ‘Yesterday. She came and brought you some food. You talked with her.'

Marco nodded, satisfied. ‘I thought so. It was a lovely dream. The best I've had for years.'

Leo watched him drink. ‘It was real, Papà, and she seemed to make you happy.'

Marco nodded. ‘I've had some terrible dreams, Leo. That voice, always moaning on, creeping in like rain under the door. Did you hear it, son?' He leaned forward and grasped Leo's wrist. ‘You mustn't listen to it, do you hear me? Even if it calls your name.'

Marco let go of Leo and slumped back against the pillows. He was panting, the breath coming hard and shallow from his chest.

‘You've talked too much, Papà,' Leo said, smoothing his sheets. ‘It's exhausted you.'

‘But I am better, aren't I, Leo?'

Leo leaned over him and felt his cheek. It was warm, but dry. ‘I'm sure you are. And now I'm going to give you a nice massage with lavender oil.'

Marco closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, son.' But he was asleep again by the time Leo came back with the oil.

Leo knew that his father had slept well last night, because Leo had been awake all night himself. At least that's what it had felt like. How could he sleep, when there was so much to think about? He pictured Merilee wandering in the dark by herself. And he tossed about in the tangled sheets, the moonlight flooding in, waiting—for what?

Leo
, the voice moaned, at the very edge of his mind, almost there, at his toes, like the tide coming in. Like the eve of a full moon.

Leo took out Merilee's letter again. He'd slept with it in his hand, and the ink was a little smeared. Only a few hours until he would see her. It was hard to believe.

First, he'd go to market. Then he'd prepare the day's meals and make sure his father had something to eat. He really did seem better today—a bit confused, maybe, but alert. I'll tell Papà I'm going to the apothecary's shop, he decided, to get some more supplies.

A bolt of alarm shot up his spine. He leaped up and began dressing for market. He didn't want to think about how long he'd be away. Or what on earth he and Merilee were going to
do
—today, and for the rest of their lives! Where do you go when you've escaped and you can't go home?

Leo found Merilee sound asleep on a bed of pine needles. Her dark hair was spread out on something soft and red. He crept up and crouched by her side. He looked into her face. Tears stung behind his eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, her arm flung out. She looked so trusting, so vulnerable, like a very young child at home asleep in her room.

Quietly, Leo put his basket down near hers. He'd brought oranges and a bag of figs, a slab of cheese and a flask of wine. She'll be starving, he'd thought, after a night and day in the forest.

‘Leo!'

He swung around and there she was, awake, jumping up, arms circling his waist and her cheek pressed hard against his.

‘I'm so glad to see you, Leo.'

‘Merilee! Let me look at you. You were so brave—how did you get over the wall?'

‘I went through the gate, easy as you please. How's your father? Did you give him the lavender rub?'

‘Yes—he seems a bit stronger today. But he hasn't been out of bed for six days. It's been terrible.'

‘Oh, Leo, I wish I'd been there to help. But I've learned so much, maybe I'd be more use now . . .'

Leo spread out a rug on the ground and tugged at Merilee's hand. ‘Come and eat and tell me everything. What's it been like with old batface? Did she lock you up at night?'

Merilee grinned. ‘Well no, not exactly,' and she took a fig and then another and began trying to describe for Leo the different, strange world of Fiesole.

As he listened, Leo watched Merilee's face. It was full of light and expression, you could see she was living the moments she was telling, and she laughed more easily, throwing back her head as she talked about the girl, Isabella, and the splendid musical evenings they'd had.

‘You would have been so proud of me,' she told him, ‘I was the star musician!'

When Leo asked for a tune, she hunted through her basket. As she pulled out the recorder, the knife came with it.

‘Did you have to use this?' Leo picked it up and felt the sharp edge with his finger.

‘All in a night's work, my friend!' Merilee grabbed the knife from him and brandished it in the air like a pirate.

Leo gazed at Merilee in admiration. She used the knife to cut off chunks of cheese, washing it down with a cup of cold wine. Leo diced up an orange and they talked until they were hoarse. Then they lay back on the rug, feeling the warm breeze drift over them.

Merilee's eyes were closing. She looked so relaxed. But they had no time. They needed to make plans. Weren't the shadows under the trees already a little longer?

‘Have you thought what you're going to do now?' Leo asked softly.

‘Well,' Merilee drawled sleepily, ‘I
was
going to help you with your father—'

‘But after, in the future—I mean, you can't go back to Fiesole now.'

‘No.' Merilee sat up.

‘You could come home with me. Papà would understand. I'd make him understand.'

Merilee shook her head. ‘You couldn't hide me there forever. Beatrice would shout the house down.' She straightened her back. ‘Leo, if your father was still dangerously ill, I'd risk it, and raspberries to old batface.' Merilee grinned suddenly. ‘That's why I broke out of prison, after all. But he's recovering now, isn't he—and you know, I did a lot of thinking while I was walking last night.' Merilee took a breath, but didn't say any more.

Leo picked up a twig and broke it. ‘Are you going to your mother then? She's missed you so much.'

Merilee began putting things back in her basket. ‘Beatrice will be there, I'm sure of it. I'll see Mamma later, when it's the right time.' She stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. She turned to face Leo. She wasn't sleepy any more.

‘Let's run away to Venice, Leo,' she said, ‘like we always dreamt.'

Leo stared at her.

‘I could play the recorder, be a travelling musician. I'm sure I'd be good enough—they said I could play at court!—and for extra money I could always help in an apothecary shop.'

‘But Merilee—' Leo didn't know where to start. ‘I couldn't leave my father, not now. He seems better, but he's so fragile still. I couldn't leave him on his own.'

Merilee nodded. ‘Of course, not until he's strong. But you could meet me there—it may only be a few weeks before you're ready.'

Leo's heart raced. He felt torn, broken down the middle like the twig he'd just snapped. He thought of his father crying out in the night. He saw Merilee running off into a new life, her hair streaming behind her. And he heard the voice calling him, pulling at the edges of him,
Leo, help, Leo
. . .

Merilee put her hand on his arm. ‘Don't you want to break free, Leo? Remember how often you've said that to me? All the rules, the laws, the scary stories. All our life they've told us what to do, forbidden us to see each other. Well now I'm going to do what
I
want to do.'

She wound up her dark hair and fixed it on top of her head. As she stretched up, the whole length of her rippled in Leo's mind. How changed she was, he thought, so clear and certain, like a knife edge. Leo remembered how she'd looked when he'd first found her asleep. He half wished . . .

‘You know, at Fiesole, for just a moment,' Merilee's eyes were fixed on his face, ‘I got a glimpse of what my life could be like. I was playing at a concert in the Green Room, and it was as if these great heavy shutters behind my eyes opened just a crack, and a brilliant light shone in. It was only for a second, but I still remember that feeling. I was really alive, I was so bathed in light I could have floated into the air. That was
me
, I thought. That's who I am!'

Leo nodded. He'd had that feeling when he was practising his magic—when he first saw deep inside something. But it was so long since he'd done that. These days he felt like a dull piece of wood.

He glanced away, down at the shadows on the ground. He could hear Merilee breathing beside him, feel her waiting for him. His heart constricted. He was failing her, he thought. He imagined the mouse that must live in his heart, scampering around in terror.

Then, in the silence between them there came the sound of bushes rustling. Something was moving.

Leo and Merilee froze.

Leo grabbed the two baskets and Merilee's hand and began to run down the hill. They went crashing through the trees, hurtling over rocks until they came to a clump of shrubs woven tightly together in a low wall. They flung themselves down behind it. Their breath was loud in the silence.

‘Let's go down to the lake,' whispered Merilee. ‘I'm not afraid of the witch any more. No one will follow us there.'

‘But it's full moon tonight,' Leo whispered back. ‘Maybe you should be afraid.'

Merilee looked at him. ‘The witch will get you, look out, look out, Snakes in her hair . . .'

Leo gazed back at her. Between them they held all their childhood. But it was only Leo Pericolo who heard the voice now, gathering strength with the dusk. It seemed as if the witch were singling him out, sending her challenge to him alone.

‘All right,' he said wearily, ‘let's go.'

They went quietly and quickly. When Merilee stopped to listen, she heard nothing.

‘It may have been just a pheasant or a peacock,' she said. But they hurried on until the trees began to thin and they reached the pebbly shore.

A gusty wind had sprung up, rippling the surface of the lake.

‘Can't you hear the voice now, Merilee?' asked Leo.

But Merilee was flinging off her shoes. The wind tore the words from her mouth. The water trickled over her toes. Behind them the sun was sinking, the sky flaming. Leo put his hands over his ears. But it didn't stop the voice.
Whoo pheye, Leo
, Leo!

He watched Merilee playing with the water, daring it, and her mouth was moving as if she was saying something. But he couldn't hear anything, not a word of it. He held his head and it hurt, the voice scraping at the back of his teeth, inside his mouth, behind his eyes. It was white in his head, cloudy like smoke and there, etched in black came that face with the hollow eyes.