considered running away. Then I remembered my gift.
There was still a chance I might influence Joan into believing she had seen nothing but a girl exploring the ruined old palace. But only if I could catch her before she had a chance to tell anyone else. If I ran away, I would soon be caught and condemned. Nor would it be long before the witch-hunters wondered who could have taught me the craft, and began to ask questions of my aunt.
I could not have Aunt Jane’s death on my conscience.
Hurriedly, I scuffed out the circle and concealed my aunt’s dagger under a heap of mouldering rushes in one of the downstairs rooms. Then I picked up my skirts and ran back across the dark lawns to the gloomy buildings of the lodge.
The sun had finally set, and everywhere was steeped in the glimmering darkness of twilight. Birds still sang, and a bat flitted low past my head, its fleeting body almost brushing my hair.
I hurried across the cobbled yard to the kitchen door. There were shouts from inside, and the sound of Joan crying. I was too late.
I smelled of dust and dark magick and knew the remnants of my spell hung about me like tattered clouds around a mountain top. In this state, nothing but a miracle could save me from the witchfinder’s noose.
On impulse, I stooped to the gnarled old rosemary bush growing at the back door and dragged my fingers through its fragrant leaves. With any luck it might confuse those who sought to accuse me of witchcraft.
The scent of the fresh rosemary was powerful and dizzying, like a blow to the head. For a few seconds, it threatened to overwhelm me. Then I pulled myself together, lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Up in the long, narrow room that overlooked the park, I found Joan on her knees, head bent almost to the floor, weeping noisily into her filthy apron. Guards and servants crowded about her, shocked and uncomprehending, arguing over the girl’s head. It seemed the alarm had been raised immediately on her return to the lodge, for the room was crowded.
The thin-lipped old priest, Vasco Fernandez de Aragon, was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness as he muttered some prayer under his breath. Alejandro de Castillo stood by his side, his voice urgent in his master’s ear. I could only imagine what he was saying about me. Red-faced and furious, Sir Henry Bedingfield was remonstrating with Blanche Parry, whose arms were folded staunchly across her chest.
Even the burly cook had ventured up from his pots and pans to comfort the kitchen maid, and one of the guards was fitting a bolt to his crossbow, with little success, for his fingers were shaking so much it kept slipping from the notch.
The Lady Elizabeth herself was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was too sick to rise from her bed, even to discover the cause of all this commotion.
My appearance in the doorway brought them all to a sudden, prickling silence.
Then Bedingfield shouted an order. One of the guards seized my hands, dragging them painfully behind my back. Perhaps the man feared I would work some spell that would reduce them all instantly to dust.
I stood, unresisting, my face reflecting both my shock and an innocence I did not possess.
‘What is this we’ve been hearing, girl?’ Bedingfield demanded harshly, coming closer – but not too close. He snapped his fingers at the guard. ‘Bring the witch forward into the light!’
Alejandro had turned away from his master and was watching me now with sharp, intelligent eyes.
My face, ashen before, turned to uncomfortable heat under that gaze. If the Spanish novice had thought me a woman of loose morals before, receiving notes from my lover, slipping out to meet him at night, what must he think now that I had been caught practising witchcraft?
Bedingfield ordered one of the lanterns to be raised. He stared down into my face. ‘Joan tells us she saw you in the old palace tonight, working some kind of spell. She claims you are a witch, that she caught
There was still a chance I might influence Joan into believing she had seen nothing but a girl exploring the ruined old palace. But only if I could catch her before she had a chance to tell anyone else. If I ran away, I would soon be caught and condemned. Nor would it be long before the witch-hunters wondered who could have taught me the craft, and began to ask questions of my aunt.
I could not have Aunt Jane’s death on my conscience.
Hurriedly, I scuffed out the circle and concealed my aunt’s dagger under a heap of mouldering rushes in one of the downstairs rooms. Then I picked up my skirts and ran back across the dark lawns to the gloomy buildings of the lodge.
The sun had finally set, and everywhere was steeped in the glimmering darkness of twilight. Birds still sang, and a bat flitted low past my head, its fleeting body almost brushing my hair.
I hurried across the cobbled yard to the kitchen door. There were shouts from inside, and the sound of Joan crying. I was too late.
I smelled of dust and dark magick and knew the remnants of my spell hung about me like tattered clouds around a mountain top. In this state, nothing but a miracle could save me from the witchfinder’s noose.
On impulse, I stooped to the gnarled old rosemary bush growing at the back door and dragged my fingers through its fragrant leaves. With any luck it might confuse those who sought to accuse me of witchcraft.
The scent of the fresh rosemary was powerful and dizzying, like a blow to the head. For a few seconds, it threatened to overwhelm me. Then I pulled myself together, lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Up in the long, narrow room that overlooked the park, I found Joan on her knees, head bent almost to the floor, weeping noisily into her filthy apron. Guards and servants crowded about her, shocked and uncomprehending, arguing over the girl’s head. It seemed the alarm had been raised immediately on her return to the lodge, for the room was crowded.
The thin-lipped old priest, Vasco Fernandez de Aragon, was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness as he muttered some prayer under his breath. Alejandro de Castillo stood by his side, his voice urgent in his master’s ear. I could only imagine what he was saying about me. Red-faced and furious, Sir Henry Bedingfield was remonstrating with Blanche Parry, whose arms were folded staunchly across her chest.
Even the burly cook had ventured up from his pots and pans to comfort the kitchen maid, and one of the guards was fitting a bolt to his crossbow, with little success, for his fingers were shaking so much it kept slipping from the notch.
The Lady Elizabeth herself was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was too sick to rise from her bed, even to discover the cause of all this commotion.
My appearance in the doorway brought them all to a sudden, prickling silence.
Then Bedingfield shouted an order. One of the guards seized my hands, dragging them painfully behind my back. Perhaps the man feared I would work some spell that would reduce them all instantly to dust.
I stood, unresisting, my face reflecting both my shock and an innocence I did not possess.
‘What is this we’ve been hearing, girl?’ Bedingfield demanded harshly, coming closer – but not too close. He snapped his fingers at the guard. ‘Bring the witch forward into the light!’
Alejandro had turned away from his master and was watching me now with sharp, intelligent eyes.
My face, ashen before, turned to uncomfortable heat under that gaze. If the Spanish novice had thought me a woman of loose morals before, receiving notes from my lover, slipping out to meet him at night, what must he think now that I had been caught practising witchcraft?
Bedingfield ordered one of the lanterns to be raised. He stared down into my face. ‘Joan tells us she saw you in the old palace tonight, working some kind of spell. She claims you are a witch, that she caught
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