There was a movement. The stag’s head stirred, and raised a little. He snorted, and then gave a soft cry, as if calling to someone.
A man stepped forth from the shadowy recesses beneath the trees.
A king, for there was a halo of golden light about his head, as if a crown.
A king tall and well muscled and with long black curling hair.
Charles.
He walked to the stag, now straining to rise, and extended a hand to its nose. Blinding light filled the glade and, when it cleared, there stood the stag, as glorious as he would have been in his prime. His chest was healed, his stance was majestic, and he glowed with power and purpose.
Charles had vanished.
“See,” whispered Gog. “The Stag God has risen.”
Louis could see nothing but the sight of Charles walking into the clearing. “I always knew it would be him,” he said, his voice curiously flat. “Always. Whatever she said to me.”
“Nothing counts for you in this life but that the Stag God rises,” said Magog. “Nothing counts but that! Not the bands, not even Noah. Your purpose in this life must only be to ensure that the Stag God rises. Can you imagine, Louis, what an opponent the Stag God shall be, when he has not only his ancient powers of this land fully restored to him, but the powers of the bands as well? When he is not only Stag God of the ancient land, but Kingman of the Troy Game as well? Then he can challenge Weyland Orr, but not before.”
“Not before,” echoed Gog. “Never before that time.”
“Noah shall survive until that moment, Louis. You must understand that it shall be the Stag God, and no one else, who must wrench her from Weyland’s claws. Do you understand that, Louis?”
Louis said nothing, staring at the empty space where but a moment before he had seen Charles transform into the Stag God.
“Do you understand that, Louis?”
“Aye,” Louis ground out, as if he ceded away his life with each passing word. “I understand that.”
Part Five
RESTORATION
London, 1939
They turned back for the road to Epping Forest, Frank barely able to contain his impatience and irritation, Skelton smoking non-stop. He sat so hunched down in his seat, and with his cap pulled down over his eyes, that even though Frank glanced at him several times, itching for conversation, he always turned his eyes back to the road, his words unsaid.
With Piper’s car still leading the way they drove through Higham Hill, then through Chigham, then yet still further north until the great stretch of King George’s reservoir appeared on their left. On the right, in the distance, rose a long line of dark green.
Epping Forest.
Skelton kept his eyes ahead. He’d straightened a little in his seat as they approached the reservoir and he’d taken a fresh cigarette from its pack, although he had not lit it. Instead it tapped up and down, up and down, up and down on his knee.
Frank glanced at it in irritation.
Skelton looked at him…and the tap tap tapping of the cigarette increased in tempo.
Frank opened his mouth, but just before he said anything Piper’s car swerved off on a narrow laneway to the right, heading eastwards directly for the line of green.
Skelton glanced at the signpost at the head of the lane, then started as he saw the name of the laneway. Idol Lane.
“Dear God!” he said. “Where are we going?”
“To the Old Man’s house,” Frank said. “I told you. Faerie Hill Manor.”
“Are you certain this isn’t Weyland Orr’s house?”
Frank shook his head. “No. The Spiv hangs about, but the house belongs to the Old Man.” He glanced down at Skelton’s right hand.
Skelton looked down himself, and saw that he’d crushed the cigarette. He swore, and threw the ruined smoke out the window. “How far?”
“Not far,” said Frank. “Look, see ahead? On that hill?”
Skelton leaned forward, trying to peer through the windscreen. There was a hill rising in the distance. It was not very high and covered in what appeared to be, from this distance, manicured lawns, and perfectly dome-shaped. On its summit stood one of those nineteenth-century Gothic fancies England was famed for, all towers and turrets and whimsical spires.
“Faerie Hill Manor,” said Skelton softly, “atop The Naked.”
One
Idol Lane, London
NOAH SPEAKS
Jane pulled myself and Catling into the house and then closed the door behind us. We stood in a dimly lit parlour, its dark floorboards, heavy wooden sideboard and chairs and shuttered window giving it an air of deep cheerlessness.
Granted, at that moment I did not need either floorboards or heavy furniture to impart any sense of cheerlessness. Yet, strangely, I also felt relieved. What I had dreaded for so long had finally arrived; I no longer had to anticipate it, I merely had to survive it.
We stood in that dark room, and stared at each other.
All our history, our battles and jealousies and hatreds as Cornelia and Genvissa, and then Caela and Swanne, rose between us…and then somehow dissipated, as if neither of us had the courage or energy to deal with it at this moment.
Jane was dressed plainly but well, in clothes that would have suited any prosperous housewife, a fitted bodice and full skirt partly hidden by a voluminous apron tied about her waist. Neither apron nor full skirt did anything to hide her thinness.
Unlike the neatness of her clothes, her blonde hair was slightly unkempt, and then I realised that it was deliberately left so, that the side wings of her hair might fall over her forehead and cheeks and hide, somewhat, the festering sores that marred her skin. If it was not for those sores, the fear in her eyes, and the lingering traces of pain that I saw shadowed in both her countenance and bearing, then Jane Orr would have been a lovely woman.
“You should have run,” she said.
“I am sick of running,” I said. I pulled Catling forward a step—she had been standing behind my skirts. “Catling, this is Jane Orr. She shall be our companion for some time to come.”
Jane and Catling looked at each other, some degree of ill will clearly passing between them. Catling, as I had so often bemoaned, was no innocent, and she well knew who Jane was.
Her murderess in her former life.
Jane gave a single nod.
Catling stared at her a moment longer, then looked about the parlour, affecting boredom.
Jane looked back to me. “He waits,” she said.
I took a deep breath, and I am not ashamed to admit that it shuddered a little on its intake.
“Very well,” I said, and Jane led us through the parlour to the door leading to the kitchen.
This room was lighter, brighter and far more homely than the parlour, and that last was what surprised me most in that first instant I had to take it all in.
I had not expected Weyland’s house to be “homely”—and I thought this must be Jane’s doing, not his.
The kitchen was larger than the parlour, as befitting the most used room of the house. There was a bright hearth with irons holding pots and a kettle to one side of the fire. More bright-polished pots and baking dishes hung from the high mantelpiece on which rested some beautiful pieces of delftware.
Weyland must be doing well indeed.
There was a dresser, piled high with good plate, both pewter and pottery, and a table, and it was to this table that my attention was held.
Three people sat there, two girls and a man.
I could not look at Weyland immediately—I did not want him to have the satisfaction of witnessing my frightened eyes alight instantly on him—and so I studied the two girls.
They were staring at me with faces both frightened and fascinated. They were very young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, pretty, and yet with hard lines marring their mouths and foreheads.
I did not have to stretch my imagination to wonder what had caused that hardness in girls so young.
One of them was a r
edhead, her skin very pale and creamy and with freckles scattered over her forehead and nose. Her name was Frances, I later learned. The other was dark-haired and with black eyes shining with intelligence. She, as I discovered, was Elizabeth.
My eyes finally travelled to the man sitting at the head of the table.
I took a breath, and raised my chin.
Weyland Orr was of the same pleasant, even handsome, aspect that I’d noted when he’d come to Woburn village. Perhaps even more attractive, for here was no cold to pinch his cheeks and frost his breath. Now that he was not wrapped in a great cloak, I could see that he was a little too lean and his physique a little too raw-boned for his height, but in some way that only added to his appeal. His face was striking—his bone structure very strong, his forehead broad, his nose long and straight, his beardless jaw finely defined. His fair hair was worn long and neatly tied in a club at the nape of his neck, unlike the luxurious curls so many men affected. He was dressed well, his shirt of the finest linen, his doublet and breeches of a fine wool that had been dyed a soft grey—a combination of colours which well suited him. He wore several gold rings, two on his left hand and one on his right and a small gold hoop in his left earlobe.
If I hadn’t known what exactly he was, then I would have found his strong-boned face and rangy physique immensely appealing. Indeed, I am sure I would have liked him on sight, and I could imagine that if Weyland took that face and body into a tavern he would have the girls gravitating to him within no time.
Weyland was watching me with a glint of humour in those hazel eyes, then his lips parted, and I saw a glint of white teeth.
And then his eyes slipped lower, and I knew he had seen Catling.
“What’s this?” he said. “A brat you picked up on the street to garner my sympathy? I don’t remember seeing her when I—”
He stopped suddenly, and I wondered why he should be so surprised at not seeing her. After all, he’d been the one to call me out into the street when he’d come to Woburn village. Surely he hadn’t expected me to drag out any children I might have had.
“My daughter Catling,” I said, thanking every god in existence that my voice did not quaver.
Weyland’s eyes flew back to mine. “Daughter?” he said softly, and he gathered his long legs under his chair, preparatory to rising. “I did not know of a ‘daughter’.”
I raised an eyebrow, not dropping my eyes from his as, indeed, Weyland slowly rose.
It was a movement meant to intimidate, for he stared at me, his face cold, his eyes implacable, his movements very, very slow and deliberate. Like a dog, crouching for the attack.
“And where did you get a ‘daughter’, then?” Weyland said, moving about the table towards me.
From the corner of my eye I saw Elizabeth cringe as he passed her, and Jane take a half step back to allow him passage.
“From whoring about,” I said. “I thought it best to get some practice in before I arrived.” I wondered if Catling would have anything to say to that. But, no, she kept silent.
Weyland had reached me now, and I had to tilt my head even further back to continue to meet his eyes. He was taller than I remembered.
His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. “I can smell a man about you now…”
“John Thornton,” I said. “Reverend.”
He laughed with what seemed to be genuine amusement, and perhaps even a little relief. “I know of him. He is a fine man.” He appeared to be about to say something else, but he stopped himself, and instead reached forward a hand and rested it against my belly.
It was difficult, but I managed not to flinch.
“I have no doubt your dark incubus told you of him,” I said. “I am sure that he got to know Thornton very well over the years.”
Weyland’s eyes dropped to Catling, who was doing a reasonable approximation of fear.
“And so this is his daughter, eh?”
I felt rather than saw Jane’s eyes fly to me, felt her shock, and I prayed she would have both face and emotions under control by the next time Weyland thought to glance her way.
“Who can know?” I said softly. “It was very dark.”
“You have as sharp a tongue on you, madam, as does Jane,” Weyland said, and I am sure none in the kitchen could fail to hear the threat in it. “Do you know how I soften her tongue?”
“With delightful cruelty, I should imagine,” I said.
Something clouded his eyes, and he withdrew his hand from me. “I do not necessarily have to be cruel,” he said, “if you just do as I want.”
I gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Cease!” he said, his voice so sharp that I stopped instantly. One of his hands travelled to my face, and its warm fingers caressed my cheek and jaw. When he resumed speaking, his voice was very low, underscored with threat.
“I run a whorehouse here, Noah. Did Jane tell you that? Elizabeth and Frances let the men of London ride them, all for coin. So if there is food on the table, remember that it is their sweat and moans which have brought it to you.”
“You have a most charming way with words, Weyland.”
His face tightened. “I’m sure you won’t mind contributing to the household upkeep.”
I fought to keep my face neutral.
“As you will,” I said, and, lifting my arms so I could reach the buttons at the back of my bodice, I began slowly to undo them.
There was a flash of something in Weyland’s eyes—surprise, I suppose—but then he wiped all expression from his face.
“I have no intention,” I said, “of disobeying my master.”
More of the buttons slipped free. For a moment my gaze crossed with those of Elizabeth and Frances; both were rigid with either shock or fear, or maybe both.
My eyes went back to Weyland, and his mouth twitched, which surprised me. “Let me help you,” he said, calling my bluff, and his hands tugged gently at my bodice so that it slipped free of my shoulders.
“You’re not afraid that you might end your days with a face like Jane’s?” he said.
“Jane’s face is not her embarrassment to bear,” I said.
The bodice and then my loosened chemise fell free to the floor, and every eye in the kitchen slipped to my suddenly bared breasts.
I was suddenly very sorry I had begun this. Defiance was all very well, but only if it achieved the effect you desired. In all other cases it was a miserable failure.
Weyland caught my eyes, and he smiled. Very slightly, but without any discernible sarcasm or spite.
I was more unnerved than ever.
He put one of his hands on my shoulder, then turned me about.
I heard Elizabeth and Frances gasp. They had not, obviously, expected to see the recently (and oh-so-strangely) healed wounds on my back.
Weyland put his hand against my back, gently, but its very presence was enough to make me jump. He was standing where I could see his face, and I saw that his smile broadened a little at that evidence of my discomfiture.
Then his eyes caught sight of the ruby and gold bracelet on my left wrist, which I had put on just before entering the house. I don’t know why I wanted to wear this jewel, only that, somehow, it seemed fitting.
His hand ran softly down the underside of my arm (causing me—gods help me!—to shiver), lifting it up so all in the kitchen could see the beautiful piece of jewellery.
“I remember this,” said Weyland. “I once went to great trouble to give it back to you. You fainted, as I remember.”
Silvius, as I had thought then, riding the Troy Game to the acclaim of the crowds in Smithfield.
Harold and myself watching, not realising we watched Asterion disporting himself before us.
“Yes,” I said, “I fainted. I must have intuited somehow what maliciousness stood before me.”
His face closed over, and he dropped my arm. His hands went to the laces of my skirt, and within the moment it had joined my chemise and bodice on the floor.
Now I was naked. Usually this condition did not discomfort me at all, but now, with Weyland standing so close to me, his hand running softly up and down my back tracing those horrific welts, I felt very vulnerable. I tried to keep my bearing straight, my chin defiant, but I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms about myself and hide my nakedness. There was want in Weyland’s eyes, and it horrified me.
“These are terrible wounds, Noah,” he said. Now only his fingertips were tracing up and down, a feather’s touch.
The touch of a monster.
“Aye, and the more terrible for the malice which caused them,” I said.
Again he appeared troubled, for his fingertips stopped momentarily, then resumed their gentle stroking.
“They were recently received, I believe,” he said.
“Aye,” I replied. I wondered what Elizabeth and Frances made of all this.
“And yet, see how well healed they are. How is this so, Noah?”
“A king came to me, and kissed them, and made them well.”
His fingers caught at my skin, and pinched, and I had to stifle a gasp of pain.
“Speak the truth, Noah.”
“I do not know. John Thornton said a strange physician came to me, and healed them.”
“Is that so? Are you grateful to him?”
Gods, where was he going with this?
“Of course,” I said. His hand—those cursed fingertips!—was now making me highly uncomfortable, and as much as I hated to give him victory in this, I stepped away very slightly, bent down, picked up my skirts, and began, with trembling fingers, to relace them.
“Allow me,” he said, and his hands brushed aside mine, and tightened the laces with several quick, practised movements.
Then he turned me round so I faced him. One of his hands slid inside the waistband of my skirt, his knuckles rough against my belly, and he jerked me close.
I gasped, not because the rough pressure of his hand pained considerably—which, indeed, it did—but because at the touch of his hand against me, I was overwhelmed with a vision.