‘Why?’ Natalie’s grey eyes were fixed on hers.
‘Help them. You’ve got to help them, not destroy them. They’ve suffered enough already.’
‘He has killed, Joss.’
‘I know. I know he has. But only because he’s trapped here. Please – the evil is Margaret’s, you said. Don’t destroy them. We have to find a way of helping them.’
They were both looking down at the dolls in Natalie’s hands. ‘Supposing he kills again?’
‘We can stop him. There must be a way. He wasn’t evil.’
Eyes. Blue. Desperate eyes, staring into hers. Arms around her. Ice cold lips on hers –
‘Joss! Joss are you all right?’
Katherine
The wall in her head was crumbling.
He thought she was Katherine! He hadn’t even seen her. It was Katherine he had held, Katherine he had kissed; to Katherine he brought the roses. Her mother, her grandmother – how many other women in the house had he pursued, believing they were his Katherine? She was shivering violently too now. ‘Don’t separate them.’ She held out her hand. ‘Leave them together.’
Natalie put the figures in her palm.
Silently Joss bent and picked up the scarf. Carefully she wrapped the two dolls up once again.
‘They don’t belong in here,’ she said quietly.
‘No.’
‘Can we remove the hold she has over them?’ Joss nodded down at the floor.
‘We can try.’ Natalie stood for a moment deep in thought. ‘The rituals of the church can’t reach her. We need to speak to her in a language she understands. Play her at her own game.’
‘Witchcraft?’ Joss shook her head.
‘I prefer to call it sympathetic magic. We have to cut the ties that bind her to them and to this place. We need something to tie and something to cut.’
‘In the vestry.’ Joss hesitated, looking down at the blue silk package in her hands then she put it down on a pew. ‘I’ll have to look.’
The door was unlocked. Switching on the light she stared round. The flower arranging materials were stacked more or less to one side near a small sink, the church paraphernalia to the other near the locked cupboards where James Wood kept books and vessels and the unconsecrated wine and bread. Her hands still stiff with cold she fumbled across the flower shelves, moving vases and blocks of oasis, jugs and flower wire. Picking up a coil of the fine wire she considered it, then she looked round for the snips. They were there, amongst the scrabble of old dusters and dried fir cones, part of a long-gone Christmas display.
‘Here.’ She handed the wire to Natalie. ‘Will this do?’
Natalie groped for the end of the wire. ‘My hands are so cold – ’
‘I know. It’s only here, near the grave. The rest of the church is bearable.’
Natalie glanced at her. ‘There’s an energy drain. She’s using the heat in some way. Here,’ she nipped off a couple of yards of wire, ‘wind this end round the dolls. I’m going to try and hook this end into the brass somehow.’ She knelt down, the end of the fine wire between her fingers. ‘It’s worn so flat. For five hundred years people have been walking over her.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have done her any harm!’ Joss commented tartly. The wire was fiddly, hard to twist. ‘There, I think that will hold.’
‘Good. Put them down here, on the step, while I try to fix this.’
‘Natalie!’ Turning from putting the dolls down Joss had glanced at the back of the church. ‘Look!’
The strange mist was there again, level with the back pews; it was thinner this time, less distinct, but the shape was clear.
‘She’s going to manifest!’ Natalie breathed. ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’
‘What do we do?’ Joss groped at her throat for the little crucifix and realised with a lurch of terror that it was still where she herself had put it, around Luke’s neck.
‘Stand firm. Visualise a solid wall of light between us and her. Remember she can’t hurt you,’ Natalie went on urgently under her breath. She dropped to her knees again, frantically jabbing at the brass with the fine end of the wire, trying to hook it into the figure.
She could hear Joss’s breath rasping harshly in the back of her throat. ‘Shall I pick them up?’
‘Yes. Carefully. Don’t pull the wire.’ Natalie’s voice was hoarse.
Joss picked the figures up and stood, her back to the altar, her hand out in front of her. The image was stronger now. They could make out the shape of the woman clearly, her long dress standing out stiffly from the hips, some kind of a head-dress over her hair.
‘Stop!’ Natalie’s voice was surprisingly strong suddenly. ‘You are in the house of God! Stop now, while you have time.’
The figure didn’t hesitate. It was coming closer, seeming to drift towards them without quite touching the ground.
‘Margaret de Vere, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stop!’ Natalie raised her hand.
‘She can’t hear you,’ Joss whispered. The woman’s face was slowly becoming visible. It registered no expression at all. ‘What do we do?’ Her voice slid up into a cry of fear.
‘She must be able to hear us – or at least she can sense us. Why else is she here?’ Natalie jabbed at the brass frantically. ‘Stick, damn it. Stick in, will you!’
The figure was drifting closer, with every moment becoming clearer to the eye. They could see the heavy embroidery on her gown now – the jewelled girdle, the detail of her head-dress with its floating veil, and above all her face. It was a strong face with heavy features, the mouth a hard narrow line, the skin almost colourless, the eyes open, the colour of the winter sea, unseeing and expressionless.
‘We’ve summoned her presence by interfering,’ Natalie murmured. ‘Somehow we have to stop her!’ She pushed the wire frantically, bending it almost double with the force of her gesture and with a slight click the hook caught under a rough edge of the ornate head-dress of the figure on the ground.
‘Done it!’ She scrambled to her feet, the snips in her hand.
‘Margaret de Vere, you have been guilty of sorcery in this holy place. You have made images of your king and of your daughter and because of your evil spells they cannot rest in peace. This wire which holds you all together I am now going to cut. Your influence will be over. Your time on this earth is finished. Go from this place and find peace and light away from Belheddon. Go!’
She put the snips to the wire and pressed the handles together as hard as she could.
No! No! Nooo!
The scream which filled the church came from neither woman, nor from the shadowy figure standing before them. It came from the air, from the echoes, from the ground beneath their feet.
Natalie hesitated, the wire slipping out of the blades.
‘Go on! Cut it!’ Joss called. ‘Quickly. Now!’
Using both hands Natalie managed to jam the wire back between the stumpy steel blades and chopped as hard as she could. This time the ends parted. The longer piece sprang free and coiled itself down onto the brass, whilst the shorter end snapped back round Joss’s hand and the wax figures in it. Her eyes hadn’t left the figure before them. It was barely ten feet from them now, still moving. ‘It hasn’t worked,’ she gasped. ‘Natalie, it hasn’t worked.’
She was getting closer. Joss could feel the cold so intense now, that the air seemed scarcely breathable.
‘Natalie,’ her voice had risen to a scream. Pressing herself back against the pew out of the way she felt and saw the woman pass within three feet of her, drift on over the top of the brass, up the chancel steps, through the altar itself and out through the east wall of the church.
‘Dear God,’ Joss looked down at the figures in her hands. She had clutched them so tightly they had grown soft in her fingers. ‘Has she gone?’
‘She’s gone.’ Natalie sat down in a pew. She was white with shock.
‘Did you do it?’ Joss was staring at the wax puppets.
‘I
don’t know.’ Natalie bent over and put her head on her hands as if she were praying. ‘I don’t know.’
For a moment they both sat there too shocked to move, then Joss straightened. ‘Let’s go back to the house.’
Natalie looked up. ‘What do you want to do with the dolls?’
‘I think we should bury them. Together. Come on, let’s go.’ Joss kicked the rug back across the brass. ‘I’ll turn out the lights. I don’t want to stay here.’
Both still very afraid they left the church, closing the door behind them. The dolls once more wrapped in the silk scarf were clutched in Joss’s hand. ‘Let’s get back in the house. I’m too cold to think. We’ll need to find a spade.’
Hurrying to avoid the heavy rain, they threaded their way down the path and into the back door of the house. Joss put the scarf down on the kitchen table. They could both smell the heavy honey of the wax. ‘What about the boys? Georgie and Sammy. Have they gone?’
Natalie threw herself down in a chair. She was exhausted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Suddenly you don’t know much.’
‘I’m sorry, Joss.’
Joss was rubbing her hands hard on the front of her coat. ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry. You’re helping me and I’m not being grateful.’ She looked at the bundle of blue silk. ‘Poor things. I hope they’re free.’ Biting her lip she was silent for a moment. ‘There’s only one way to find out. I’ll go upstairs.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’ Joss hesitated. ‘No. This is something I have to do on my own, Natalie. Just be here, if I shout, OK?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never called him – summoned him, I mean. But I think if he were still there he might come.’ The blue eyes had been gentle; full of love.
‘And so would Georgie and Sam, Joss. They always come when they’re called.’
The two women looked at each other grimly. Joss put the dolls gently into the dresser drawer. ‘Just for a while. Until we can bury them.’ She took a deep breath, visibly steadying herself, then she smiled at Natalie. ‘Wish me luck.’
43
At the bottom of the stairs she stopped, her hand on the newel post and she looked up. The landing was always in deep shadow. On even the sunniest day the light never penetrated there. Listening carefully she put her foot on the bottom step.
‘Edward!’ she called in a low voice. It came out croakily, barely audible. Edward, sire, your grace … your majesty? How did one address a king who had been dead for five hundred years?
Her fists clenched, she began slowly to climb the stairs, one step at a time, her eyes and ears straining into the emptiness.
‘Are you there? Georgie? Sammy?’
She reached the top and looked round. The landing was deserted; the door into her and Luke’s bedroom ajar. She moved towards it carefully, consciously avoiding the creaky board near the coffer chest with its pewter candlestick.
‘Is there anyone there? Georgie? Sammy?’ She could deal with them, her own brothers; little boys.
Her hand outstretched she pushed open the bedroom door and looked in. The curtains were half drawn and the room was almost dark. Outside, the rain streamed down the window panes, slamming every now and again against the glass with extra force.
She loved this room; it was beautiful, gracious, redolent with history, and yet cosy. She could see Tom’s discarded teddy in the corner; an old jumper of Luke’s still inside out on the floor where he had dropped it. She smiled affectionately.
Moving towards the bed, she rested a hand on one of the bedposts. The black oak turned and carved, was warm beneath her fingers and she stroked it gently. ‘Was it here? Did you lie together here?’ She spoke out loud without looking round. ‘She’s gone, my lord. No one else can take her place, not here. You and she belong together in another world.’
Her hand dropped from the bedpost and slowly she moved up the side of the bed, trailing her fingers on the crewel work cover. ‘I’m going to bury the effigies Margaret made of you both in the rose garden down beyond the lake.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I’ll find a white rose, a rose of York to put there so you can rest in peace.’
She jumped at a sudden clatter in the corner of the room near the back window. The draught had stirred the curtain which had knocked a small wooden car onto the floor. Walking over to it, she stooped and picked it up. ‘Georgie? Sammy? Is this yours?’
There was no answer.
Slowly she turned round. The palms of her hands were wet; the small hairs on the back of her neck were tingling. Something in the room had changed.
He was standing near the front window.
Joss held her breath. Her stomach turned over with fear. He was tall; very tall and as she moved closer she could see the greying hair, the anguished narrow eyes, the strong chin, the broad shoulders, shrouded by a dark cloak and beneath it again the plate armour of a man who feared assassination in this house, the house of his mistress.
He was coming closer. Suddenly she was terrified; she had called him, but now she knew she could not control him. ‘Please,’ she murmured. ‘Please … no.!’ Again she could smell the roses.
He was coming closer still.
‘I’m not Katherine,’ she whispered desperately. ‘Please, listen to me. I’m not Katherine. Katherine has gone. She’s not here any more. Please, please, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt my children or Luke – please – ’
She took a step backwards and felt the bed immovable behind her.
‘Please. We’ve cut the link. Your love was cursed. It was evil. Margaret made it happen. She tied you together and to this house with her magic, but we’ve released you; you can go. Please –’ she held her hand in front of her face. ‘Please. Go.’
He had stopped moving; for several seconds he seemed to be watching her then slowly he lifted his arm towards her. She shrank back with a whimper, but the bed stopped her as his fingers brushed her cheek. It was like the touch of cold wet leaves.
Katherine
His lips hadn’t moved but she heard the name inside her head. ‘I’m not Katherine,’ she sobbed. She retreated further, bending backwards away from him across the bed. ‘Please, I’m not Katherine!’
Katherine
She had ordered them to send for him.
Lying in the high bed as the contractions tore her apart she asked, then she begged, then she screamed for him.
It was her mother who told them to wait; who forbade them to go.
As her seventeen-year-old daughter’s belly had swollen with the king’s child Margaret had smiled and nodded and watched. The girl’s revulsion and panic were nothing out of the ordinary. After her milk sop husband had been removed – so easy a task, she blew him out like a candle – it was a matter of time only before she would grow used to her kingly lover, a man whose early stunning good looks had turned to corpulence in middle age; the man who, once so attractive he could have had any woman in England, was now enslaved by her – so enslaved that he would grant his little mistress’s mother anything she asked.
As she stood looking down at the bed where two frightened midwives were sponging her daughter’s sweat-stained face she smiled again and firmly shook her head.
Though he was only a few miles away he could not be summoned yet. He mustn’t see Katherine looking like this. She was ugly, she stank, she screamed and tore at the bed clothes shouting obscenities which might have suited a London tavern but which sounded bestial from the lips of a gently born girl of seventeen.
Let the child be born – the daughter, the precious pretty treasure who would captivate and hold her father’s affections, then he could come. Then he could shower Katherine, cleansed and rested and smelling of sweet flower waters and perfumes, with gold and jewels and fine silks, and bring his child ivory rattles and coral beads.
Katherine!
‘No!’ Joss flung herself away from him across the bed, bunched her knees and threw herself onto the floor. With the bed between them she faced him, panting. ‘I am
not Katherine! Can’t you see that! Katherine’s dead! You’re dead!’ She was sobbing desperately. ‘Please. The link is cut. Margaret’s spell is broken; it’s all over, you are free of her at last. Don’t you see? It’s finished!’
He hadn’t moved any closer to the bed. He stood for a long time looking at, or perhaps through, her, then slowly he put his hand to his waist and she realised for the first time that beneath the long shadowy cloak he was wearing a sword. He drew it without a sound.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘For Christ’s sake, no! Haven’t you heard me? Please –’ she retreated backwards away from the bed towards the windows which overlooked the garden, moving carefully step by step, her stomach knotted with terror. ‘Please – ’
‘So, does the great king, the sun of York, terrorise women with a sword?’ Natalie’s voice from the door was harsh with fear. ‘Are you going to kill her? Are you going to put your sword to the throat of a woman who is carrying a child. Your child!’
She ignored Joss’s gasp. ‘Put away your sword. You have no enemies here any more. You have no place here. This is not your time!’
Joss staggered backwards against the wall, her arms crossed across her breasts and suddenly her legs wouldn’t support her any more. With a sob she found herself sliding to her knees.
Natalie stepped into the room. ‘Put up your sword. You cannot hurt her. She is nothing to you, don’t you see? Nothing. She is from a different world. Let her go. Let her and her family live in peace. You have to leave Belheddon. The time has come. It’s time to go.’
The swordpoint wavered, then slowly it began to fall. Joss watched mesmerised. It looked very real. She could see the glimmer of the steel as his hand dropped to his side.
Katherine
‘Katherine is waiting for you,’ Natalie’s voice was gentle suddenly. ‘Let your child live. I’ll take care of her.’
They were watching the man’s face. The pain and anger etched into every line of it were clearly visible as was the velvet-trimmed neck of his shirt beneath the breast plate and the cords which held the cloak in place.