Witchrise (2 page)

Richard and I exchanged wry glances. This was not exactly how we had planned the spell to go.

‘Oh, very well.’ I knew it would be impossible to shift him. ‘Unless you wish to stop, Richard, and try again another night?’

‘What, and miss the best alignment of planets?’

Impatiently Richard gestured me to step back into place, then replaced the blindfold so that I was once more in darkness. ‘The circle has not been broken. We shall continue.’ His voice grew curt. ‘Extinguish that lantern, priest. And do not interrupt us again, whatever you may see or hear.’

Blindfolded, I listened to Richard’s rhythmic chanting as he slipped back through the ninefold charm, weaving it about the circle once more.

At first I was very much aware of Alejandro in the room, but then my witch’s mind settled into the melodic words and actions of the spell, and I began to sway to their dance-like rhythm, my fingers once more tingling with power. It was like falling into a dream, except that all my senses were on fire at the same time, conscious of everything around me, the creaks and shifts of the old house where I had been born and grew up, birds calling to each other outside in the gathering dusk, the thin whistle of wind under the eaves . . .

‘Call her,’ Richard whispered in my ear, just as he had done before our spell was interrupted.

‘Let the curtain be parted twixt life and death!’ I lifted my arms in welcome. ‘O spirits of the departed, hear me! Catherine Canley, hear me! I who am thy daughter call thee out from the shades of the other world. Come, spirit of my mother, and stand before thy living flesh and blood.’

The room grew chill and my voice faltered, forgetting the words Richard had taught me.

It was hard not to recall the last time I had summoned the spirit of the dead in this way. Inexperienced in the ways of dark magick, I had dared to call forth the Princess Elizabeth’s executed mother, Anne Boleyn, and she had come to us in the darkness at Hampton Court, a silvery floating lady with sad eyes. But then a terrible storm had descended upon the circle, whipping violently at us, threatening to tear apart the palace brick by brick, the wind howling in our faces . . .

My senses were suddenly assailed by the powerful scent of burning rosemary; Richard kneeling behind me within the safety of the circle, chanting under his breath, had scorched the dry sprig in the candle flame.

I staggered slightly under a sense of weight, and heard Alejandro draw a sharp breath.

‘She is here,’ Richard breathed.

I had known before he spoke, my flesh goose-pimpled with cold once more, my heart beating thunderously in the silence. There was indeed a presence in the room with us, and it was watching me. The tiny hairs lifted on the back of my neck and my scalp tingled. It was like smelling smoke on a dry afternoon, but not knowing from which direction it came.

‘
Madre di Dios
,’ Alejandro muttered, and I guessed he must be making the sign of the cross.

Triumph licked like fire along my veins. I dragged off my blindfold and glanced about, my eyes adjusting to the glimmer of candlelight.

I had been prepared for fear. Perhaps even terror. My mother had been a powerful witch, my aunt had often told me that, and to summon such a spirit was always dangerous, even for her own child.

What I had not expected was to feel overwhelmed by love.

My mother had died when I was a young child, and I had little memory of her alive. A haunting scent, laughing blue eyes and a pair of warm enveloping arms about me, that was all I could remember. Catherine Canley had always been just a name to me, a myth, a ghost from my past. Yet here she was before us, a beautiful woman with long fair hair and the same striking blue eyes I remembered.

She floated just beyond the reach of my arms, watching me intently. I had been warned not to look too deeply into the eyes of the dead, and knew not to touch any part of the apparition. But indeed it was hard not to stare, for her face was my own. It was like looking into a mirror.

‘M . . . Mother,’ I stammered. ‘Catherine Canley.’

The ghost of my mother drifted closer, stretching out slender arms, but stopped just short of the circle.

‘Meg, my dearest child.’ Her voice, like that of the dead Queen Anne, was dry as the rustle of leaves on the wind. But her clear eyes held a warning. ‘Do not touch me. Or you too will be drawn into the land of the dead.’

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. My mother was so beautiful and ethereal, her skin pale as marble, even her lips, parting now in a smile. It was so cruel that we had been parted when I was only five years old. She could have taught me so much . . .

‘My sister Jane taught you all you needed to know,’ my mother said softly, reading my thoughts as though I had spoken them aloud. ‘Do not grieve for me, Meg. It was my time to leave this earth. And your time will come too. But not yet. And not until you have accomplished those deeds which you are destined to do.’

It was hard to know if she was speaking aloud or inside my head, or even if the other two in the room could hear her. I was entranced by the rustling whisper of her voice and could not seem to tear my gaze from hers.

Richard cleared his throat behind me, and abruptly I was able to look away. We did not have much time to gather the information I needed, he was reminding me with that cough. These apparitions rarely lasted more than a few moments.

I struggled to shake off the cloying spell of her presence, trying to recall my mission. ‘Mother, I need to . . . to ask you something.’

‘You want to know about the witchfinder called Marcus Dent.’

I swallowed. ‘Yes.’

Marcus Dent. Witchfinder. The man who had condemned Aunt Jane to the stake. Once my suitor, now my mortal enemy . . .

I wondered if the others were cold too, but did not dare look at Alejandro, a shadowy figure to my left in the darkness. He was standing outside the safety of our circle, I suddenly realized. If my mother’s spirit chose to approach Alejandro, perhaps even to touch him, it was possible she could kill him. And although she was my mother, I knew the spirits of the dead could never be entirely trusted.

‘The man Dent is dangerous, my child.’

‘He wants me dead,’ I whispered. ‘It was prophesied – some years ago in Germany, by a sorceress he had condemned – that a witch would kill him, and Marcus believes that witch to be me. Is he right?’

‘I cannot tell you that.’ She paused, half closing her eyes as though listening to voices from the shadows about us. ‘But I can tell you that when you sent Marcus Dent into the void that lies beyond this world, he ripped away some of your own magick. And he is learning all he can about the craft so that his magick will grow in power. Soon it will surpass your own if you do not stop him.’

I winced, though we had half suspected as much already about my enemy. To hear it from my mother’s lips was terrible, but I did not have time to examine that information now.

‘Is he right?
Is
the prophecy about me?’ I pressed her.

‘I do not have an answer for you.’

Frustration built in me. It was almost as though she were deliberately blocking me.

But this was my mother. I looked into her eyes and saw a flicker of sympathy there. Sympathy and sadness. I knew instinctively that she would answer if she could, but something was holding her back. Some obscure rule of the spirit world, perhaps. Then I remembered how John Dee had taught me the correct way to question a spirit and interpret the answers. There were indeed distinct rules to the summoning of a spirit, and I had not been following them.

Or perhaps I had not asked the right question yet.

‘Mother,’ I began carefully, ‘is there any way you can help me to find the answer for myself?’

Her look grew keen, her blue eyes suddenly glowing. ‘Do you have the book?’

I stared, then shot a quick glance at Richard.
Book?

Dee’s apprentice shrugged, his face blank.

‘Which book?’ I asked.

‘My journal.’ The spirit of my mother moved closer, her intense blue gaze locked on mine. ‘My book of spells.’

I held her gaze, so excited by this information that I could barely respond at first. My fingers were tingling furiously, my body prickling with a sudden violent cold. Outside the house I could hear the whine of the wind rising. There was a storm coming.

‘Y . . . you left behind a spell book?’ I tried to contain my agitation. ‘Where is it hidden? Can you tell me, Mother?’

Her smile seemed strained. ‘I have already said too much. It is hidden. The place will be revealed to you. Watch and see.’

‘But is it here at Lytton Park? Can you at least tell me that?’

But my mother was fading, growing ever more silvery and spectre-like. ‘Watch and see,’ she repeated faintly. Already I could see the wall through her body.

Panic filled me as I realized we were losing her. ‘Wait, please.’ My voice faltered. ‘I . . . I love you . . .’

Her smiling look reached my heart. But it turned swiftly back to sadness. ‘You will be asked to make a hard choice, Meg.’ Her voice was barely audible against the growing roar of the wind. ‘Let your heart guide you. Now Queen Mary’s husband has left England, leaving her bed empty, her malice towards her sister grows. For she knows King Philip desires the princess in her place.’

I stared, wondering what my mother could possibly know of King Philip, the handsome Spanish king who had married Mary Tudor last year, then deserted her to wage war against the French.

‘When I was still living on this earth,’ my mother continued, ‘I served the princess’s mother, the beautiful Anne Boleyn, yet could not save her from King Henry’s cruelty. Now Elizabeth’s enemies threaten her with false accusation too. But we Canley women are powerful. Never forget that, Meg. Do not be afraid to use your gift, as I once was . . .’

I felt tears in my eyes. My mother had failed to save Queen Anne from execution. Now it felt as though I had failed Queen Anne’s daughter by allowing myself to be dismissed from her side.

Her body was fading to a silvery vapour. The visitation was almost over. My mother turned at the last moment and looked directly at Alejandro. Her eyes seemed to widen.

‘Such a bright light . . .’ she whispered.

Alejandro had been frozen throughout the summoning, his gaze fixed on my mother, a curious intensity in his face.

I wanted to shout a warning, but could not seem to speak. It was dangerous to touch a spirit. I had been drawn out of the protective circle during my last summoning, and died a magickal death. Alejandro was not even within the circle.

But as her hands stretched out towards him, Alejandro took a cautious step backward. He bowed, courteous even to a ghost, murmuring in Spanish even as he remained just out of her reach.

Then my mother was gone.

The four candles about the circle flickered and were still. The noise of the wind fell sharply away.

It was over.

My body was trembling, the raw power of the spell still throbbing and coursing through me.

I swayed there, head bowed, eyes closed, trying to shake off the dizzying effects of the spell. My feet seem to be floating like the spirit’s. It felt as though I had been drenched in ice-water, wrung out like a cloth, then tipped upside down to dry. It was not a comfortable sensation.

Gradually I became aware of a cold draught.

I looked up and promptly wished I had kept my eyes closed, my heart beginning to race.

My bedchamber had disappeared, Alejandro and Richard along with it.

I was soaring like a bird through the chill midwinter night, snow whitening the track leading away from Lytton Park, the dark air humming and alive with strange power.

I was still clad in my thin white shift. A mercifully long garment, it flapped about my ankles as I was dragged above the treetops, struggling in vain against the spell that had wrenched me away from my friends. I would have seemed to any observer like a great white owl haunting the night, though in truth I felt more like the sorrowful ghost I had summoned. Now I knew how it must feel to be tugged from eternal sleep to stand again in the world of the living, forced to obey a greater power.

This being a vision though, there was no one about to observe my undignified flight. Not until I circled the broken roof of an old hayloft and realized where the spell was taking me.

Home Farm.

The site was a desolate ruin now: a collection of empty and tumbledown buildings a few acres past the wood, their fallen stones overgrown with long grass and brambles. Once though it had been a thriving farm, attached to the big house and providing for our family’s needs. But my great-grandfather had allied himself to some minor uprising, and though he had been spared execution, our family fell out of favour at court. So Home Farm had been abandoned, our coffers not deep enough to pay for its upkeep, and now the livestock was kept at the big house instead, and vegetables grown in our own gardens.

The night was very still here, almost expectant. I glanced down, and saw a fair-haired man below me, looking up.

It was Marcus Dent.

Witchfinder, would-be friend to the all-powerful Spanish Inquisition, and my aunt’s murderer.

I felt raw terror for a moment, then deliberately slowed my breathing, trying to control my fear. I did not want Marcus to think he had any advantage over me.

This was the man who had once asked me to marry him, claiming he loved me, yet now wished solely for my destruction. My mother’s spirit had told me he was dangerous. And probably more witch than witchfinder now.

That much I had already known for myself.

Last time we met, Marcus Dent had tricked me into climbing his magickal tower, and there attempted to separate my head from my body. When I managed to escape, he shifted shape, pursuing me first as a hawk, then scuttling away in the form of a black rat. I had always suspected that Marcus had taken on some of my power while in the void, and my mother’s words tonight had confirmed that. But how such a transfer of power could have happened, and what it might signify for the future, I still did not understand.