Darkwitch Rising

  Noah gave a terrible groan, then went rigid, her head straining backwards, her back arched.

  Both Leila and Thomas lurched to their feet, each exclaiming, but Thornton almost threw himself across the space separating Noah’s chair from his, and grabbed her to him.

  “Her head,” he said. “She has the most profound attacks of brain ague.”

  It was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment, but it seemed to satisfy the Thanets’ immediate question.

  “No wonder she could not bear my questioning,” Leila said. “Her head must have been aching all morning.”

  Neither she nor her husband seemed to notice that it was Noah’s back that was the cause of her distress.

  “John,” Noah managed to gasp out. “John, please, our chamber…”

  Thornton needed no other encouragement. He lifted Noah in his arms, trying his best not to touch her back, although she cried out harshly as one of his arms scraped across just below her shoulders, and made for the great staircase as fast as his legs could carry him.

  “Not…not…” Noah said, and Thornton thought he knew what she was trying to say.

  “She just needs some quiet,” he said to the Thanets. “I’ll let you know once the worst has passed.”

  And with that he was gone, Noah groaning desperately in his arms, and the Thanets were left to stand in the centre of their hall, mouths agape.

  Jane writhed uncaring on the floor as her head, arms and body hit the table legs. All she knew was the agony, all she knew was the suffering, all she knew was…

  Something intruded into her blinding morass of pain. It was nothing recognisable, merely a presence, but Jane grabbed on to it without thinking or reasoning as to what it may have been.

  It was a companion in pain.

  Someone else who suffered and who, somehow, had forged a connection to her.

  Thornton kicked open the door to their bedchamber. Noah was now writhing in his arms, and biting her lips to keep from screaming out loud.

  Catling had appeared at the head of the stairs, and now she shut the door as Thornton lowered Noah to the bed.

  She rolled away from him instantly, and a terrible groan ripped out of her throat.

  For an instant Thornton stood helplessly, not sure of what he should do. He glanced at Catling—she was standing at the foot of the bed, watching her mother with unreadable eyes—then Noah had rolled back towards Thornton, was reaching out to him with one hand, and was moaning and sobbing: “Sweet gods in heaven, please, please, please…”

  Thornton grabbed her hand, wincing as he felt the bones crush under her grip, then realised that blood stained the back of her bodice. Without thinking, he managed to extricate himself from Noah’s grip, grabbed the seam where it was laced closed at the back of her neck, and ripped the material apart down to her waist.

  What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Sharp ridges ran down Noah’s back from her shoulder blades to well past where her skirt was tied about her waist.

  It looked as if…it looked as if something, some fiend, was raking her from within.

  Thornton froze in horror.

  Two claws emerged from the new welts appearing on Noah’s skin down the right-hand side of her spine, and Thornton knew then that whatever was within Noah was about to rip her to shreds.

  “Oh God, oh God, save her,” he gasped, and grabbed at her, trying to hold her arms, hold her to him, anything, so long as he did something.

  “I can’t help,” he heard Catling say at the end of the bed, but Thornton paid her no attention as blood erupted from the terrible wounds in Noah’s back, and spattered over his face.

  Jane rolled about the floor, weeping in her misery, yet still aware that someone else shared her pain. Noah? Noah? Is that you?

  Who is this?

  Jane.

  Ah, Jane, does your imp bite as well?

  Jane moaned. Noah, run, if you can. Do not trap yourself as I trapped myself.

  I cannot run…

  Noah…

  The presence faded.

  “Jane!” Noah called out. She went rigid in Thornton’s arms, then abruptly collapsed into unconsciousness.

  Her body slowly relaxed.

  “Thank God,” Thornton whispered. He held her a moment longer, then sat up, kneeling on the bed. His face, chest and arms were covered in blood. He looked at Catling, still standing, watching with apparent calm, at the foot of the bed. “Catling, what just happened?”

  “Sometimes,” Catling said, “my mother bleeds…”

  Her bizarre words somehow frightened Thornton even more deeply than the past few terrible minutes. “What can I do?” he said.

  “Love her,” said Catling, “and wash her back.”

  “The first shall be no burden at all,” Thornton whispered, “and the last…”

  He looked to Noah’s back, now covered in fresh wounds down both sides of her spine, and shuddered.

  Charles and Catharine spent the afternoon of that day in a reception put on for them in The Hague by Mary, Princess of Orange.

  It was a great, glittering affair, and both Charles and his wife were predisposed to enjoy themselves. Last night a fleet of ships had arrived from England, sent by Parliament to bring home their king in all the glory he deserved. All the officers and gentlemen of this fleet were at the reception this evening, dressed in silks and velvets and jewels, led by the General-at-sea, or Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Edward Montagu, the Earl of Sandwich.

  Sir Edward was chatting to them now, describing how they should be met at Dover by General Monck himself, “Bearing all the love that both he and England have for you, majesty,” Montagu said. He gestured forward a tall, well built man with heavy lidded but beautiful dark eyes, and long, curling black hair almost as luxurious as Charles’ own.

  “My secretary,” Montagu said as the man bowed to Charles. “Samuel Pepys.”

  “Master Pepys,” said Charles as Pepys kissed first his hand, and then Catharine’s. “I trust you enjoy the evening.”

  “More so I enjoy the thought of your majesty’s return to England,” said Pepys. “We have been the poorer for lack of your company.”

  Catharine laughed, clearly taken with the man. “You are a true gallant,” she began, and then she froze, her eyes widening, as if some monster had nipped at her soul.

  The next moment, just as Charles, Montagu and Pepys all stirred in concern, Catharine’s face regained its smile, even if her eyes remained clouded. “A passing trouble only, my lords,” she said and politely requested Pepys to speak to her of her new home, London.

  A few minutes later, as Montagu and Pepys moved away and the next guest stepped forward, Catharine leaned close to her husband and whispered, “Weyland Orr has struck again tonight, my love. Noah is in such agony as we speak that I do not think I can bear it.”

  “I will do what I can,” Charles whispered hastily. “Can you manage a few minutes alone for us? Soon?”

  Catharine nodded and, once the next guest had made his salutations, she put her hand to her cheek and spoke of a passing indisposition.

  “A few moments in a side chamber, perhaps, my lord,” she murmured to Charles and, the deep concern for his wife evident in his face, the king escorted her through the throng—all standing back and bowing or curtseying as their majesties passed—to a small room just off the main audience chamber.

  “How bad is she hurt?” Charles asked when they were alone.

  “Horribly so, my lord. But at least now the fiend has done with her. For the moment.”

  He was silent, his face lined with worry. “Gods, Louis,” he finally whispered, “don’t fail!”

  Nine

  Langley House, Hertfordshire, and Tower Street Ward, London

  There was water already steeping in a ewer by the hearth, for which Thornton was glad. He poured out a measure of the warm water into a bowl, took one of the towels that Leila Thanet had provided for Noah’s and his use, and
, steeling himself, set to washing the wounds on Noah’s back, sickened by the memory of what had caused them.

  What evil was trapped within Noah?

  Noah moaned whenever he touched her back, but there was little Thornton could do save continue to wash. The wounds needed to be cleaned, their bleeding needed to be staunched, and when he had finally done, and had taken a fresh shirt to use as a bandage across them, Noah managed a faint smile as she looked over her shoulder and thanked him.

  “Noah…” Thornton said, not knowing how to ask.

  She sighed, turning her head back to look at the windows. Night had fallen now, but the rain still beat against the thick panes of glass.

  “In the morning,” she said, “I shall have to leave here and go to London.”

  “What is causing these injuries? Noah, what—”

  “John…” She sighed again, and Thornton could see a tear run down a cheek.

  Thornton looked from her to Catling. “Catling?”

  “Catling,” said Noah before her daughter could answer Thornton, “will you go to Mistress Thanet and beg from her some warm buttered beer? And if she has some powdered bark of elm, then perhaps she could put a goodly measure of that into the beer. Tell her that the beer and the elm bark shall ease my aches somewhat. You can do this for me, at the least.”

  Thornton looked sharply at Noah, but said nothing as Catling nodded and left the room.

  When she had gone, Thornton shifted to the other side of the bed so he could see Noah full in the face. “Noah,” he said, “tell me.”

  Despite the storm which had engulfed the ship as she entered the mouth of the Thames, the Fair Polly had made good time, pulling into the wharf just below the Customs House in London by early evening. Louis de Silva, wrapped in a heavy coat, a broad-brimmed felt hat pulled down to his eyebrows, and a small leather bag at his feet, stood waiting impatiently as the gangplank was lowered and the customs officials leaned into both the incline and the blowing wind to board the vessel.

  “My good sirs,” Louis said as the two men finally attained the deck. “I need to enter London as soon as may be possible. I have here passes and documents of entry from Charles II, as well as letters of introduction from Admiral Montagu and Sir Edward Hyde. May I suggest—”

  “May I suggest,” said one of the customs officials, “that we view the documents from the comparative dryness of the captain’s office? A letter signed by God Himself shall do you no good if this rain washes away His signature the instant you reveal it.”

  Louis ducked his head in agreement, and the three men slipped and slid their way into the captain’s cabin.

  None of them saw the tall, shadowy figure standing in an overhang of the Customs House, staring at the Fair Polly.

  “Have you the Devil in you?” Thornton asked.

  Noah’s mouth quirked. “One of his imps,” she said, “set there as repayment for a great foolishness on my part. No, do not look so horrified, John. This burden is bearable, and shall become more so as time passes.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Noah reached out a hand, resting it on John’s arm where it lay against the coverlet. “Believe me, you do not wish to,” she said. “Now, I beg you, strip away those bloodied clothes you wear, and pull the sheets about me, for I do not wish to explain to Mistress Thanet such a wash of blood from what she thinks to be a headache.”

  Finally freed from the questions of the customs officials, his passport and letters of introduction perused and then carefully held to the single candle in the captain’s cabin to see if there was any secret writing contained within the paper, Louis slipped and slid his way down the gangplank to the almost equally slippery wooden decking of the wharf.

  Home once more! Louis had not realised how glad he would feel. For a moment, ignoring the rain as best he could, Louis lifted his head and stared about him. The city was hid in an almost impenetrable gloom, but even so Louis could make out the spires of London’s churches rising around the warehouses lining Thames Street. He turned westwards, his eyes straining through the gloom for St Paul’s Cathedral. There was nothing to be seen, not in this rain-pelted dark, so Louis shrugged a little deeper into his coat and pulled the now sodden felt hat a little closer about his brow.

  Louis started up Water Lane—a most appropriate name for current conditions, he thought—on the west side of the Customs House. He needed a place for the night, and there should be inns aplenty close to the wharves.

  He did not see the shadowy figure break away from its hiding place and follow him at some twenty paces distance.

  Catling returned with Mistress Thanet, who carried a tray with three beakers of sweet, warm buttered beer and a concerned expression on her face.

  “My dear,” she said, setting the tray down on a table before advancing to the bedside, “how does your aching head?”

  Noah managed a small smile, but Leila Thanet could see the effort it caused her. The woman was clearly ill, she thought, for her face was unnaturally pale and her eyes not only ringed with black smudges of exhaustion, but clouded with pain.

  “The ache is bearable,” Noah said. “I do apologise for the fuss I caused earlier.”

  “Do not think on that for now,” said Leila Thanet. “I have brought your buttered beer. This beaker,” one of her fingertips touched the beaker nearest to Noah, “contains a goodly portion of the elm powder. I hope it eases your head.”

  “Then I thank you, Mistress Thanet,” said Noah as Thornton moved to aid her to sit up a little, and lift the beaker to her lips. “This beer shall do me more good than anything might.”

  “Drink all of it,” Leila Thanet said, “and sleep away your aches through the night.”

  Leila Thanet stopped, hesitated, smiled once more at Noah, and left.

  “She is a good woman,” Noah said as the door closed. “I do not know of many who would do so much and ask so few questions. Ah, Catling, thank you for carrying my words to Mistress Thanet, and, oh, how soothing is this beer!”

  Catling nodded, apparently somewhat pleased at her mother’s thanks.

  “Drink further,” said Thornton, tipping the beaker so Noah could swallow the final dregs. “Then sleep.”

  She finished the buttered beer, and lay back, her eyes closing, slipping into sleep almost immediately. Mistress Thanet must indeed have been generous with the powdered elm bark, thought Thornton, grateful that Noah at least had some respite from the pain.

  He sent Catling to bed with her beer, then relaxed in the chair by the bed, his own eyes drooping.

  Louis walked up Water Lane, grateful for the protection the overhanging buildings gave him against the rain, but loathing the sodden muck—the curse of every city—lying in stinking piles on the street. At Tower Street he turned left, walking down to Hart Lane where he came on a small tavern called The King Charles Rampant. As he entered Louis noted the freshly painted king’s arms on the wall by the front door, and smiled at the thought that this name must only very recently have been changed from something else.

  Behind him, the figure which had been following Louis stopped, stared a while at the tavern, then turned away, moving through the soaking streets of London until he reached the Guildhall. There he slipped inside via a small side door.

  Thornton woke very gradually, slowly becoming aware of the room and of Noah’s gentle breathing. He yawned, rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand, and then froze.

  There was someone else in the room.

  Thornton sat up sharply, his sleepiness gone.

  “I mean you no harm,” said a voice, and Thornton’s gaze jerked to the window.

  A man stood there. An ordinary man, of pleasant enough aspect, and dressed in good quality clothes.

  He smiled at Thornton. “I am a physician,” he said.

  “Mistress Thanet sent for you?”

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “She said she had a guest who had…suffered.”

  Thornton stood up and offered the stranger
his hand. “I am the Reverend John Thornton. I am…Noah’s husband.”

  The man took Thornton’s hand, raising his eyebrows a little. “Her husband? I did not know she had a husband. She’d told me only that she’d…Well, well. A husband…” He stopped, let go Thornton’s hand, and walked over to the bed.

  “I am afraid I did not catch your name,” said Thornton. “And I do not think that you should—”

  The man whipped about, seizing Thornton by the arm. “My name is not important,” he said. “I am a friend.”

  Thornton opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Yes. The stranger was right, his name was not important, and, yes, he was a friend.

  Slowly the stranger’s grip loosened on Thornton’s arm. He nodded to himself, as if satisfied, then turned back to Noah. “You shall tell her that Mistress Thanet sent for a physician.”

  “Yes,” said Thornton.

  The stranger stood a moment, looking down on Noah. “She is very beautiful.”

  “Yes,” said Thornton, and something in his tone made the stranger turn and look at him with pity.

  “You love her,” he said.

  Thornton sighed. “It will murder me, this love.”

  “Oh,” said the stranger, “not you.” He bent down to Noah, and slowly uncovered her shoulders and back.

  “She does not wake,” murmured the stranger.

  “She has drunk of buttered beer,” said Thornton. “Infused with elm bark.”

  Again the stranger turned to smile at Thornton. “Buttered beer? It is my favourite.”

  Once more he bent to Noah, and now he carefully lifted away from her back the linen shirt that Thornton had laid there.

  His face went very still at the sight of the terrible wounds. They had clotted, but still gaped, and the flesh surrounding them was swollen and hard.

  “They are very terrible,” said the stranger.