Darkwitch Rising

  Weyland shot them an irritated glance.

  Jane and Noah served up breakfast, adding a platter of freshly baked bread to the fare, and pouring out warmed weak beer for everyone to drink.

  Then they sat down themselves and Weyland, dipping a piece of bread into his porridge and taking a bite, regarded Jane speculatively. She tried not to react, but could feel her heart pound and a trickle of sweat start down her spine.

  Weyland swallowed his mouthful, and addressed Elizabeth and Frances, eyeing their borrowed clothes.

  “Where are your clothes?”

  “When we cleaned up, um, after…” said Elizabeth.

  “Get to the point,” Weyland said.

  “After we’d cleaned the kitchen, we found our skirts and bodices ruined with blood. We had to throw them out. Our spare clothes are at our lodgings, and you said that we couldn’t—”

  “You could surely have saved the clothes,” said Weyland. “They cost me good money.”

  “Money that Elizabeth and Frances had paid for with weeks spent on their backs and half of London’s apprentices heaving over them,” Jane said. She did not look at Weyland.

  His eyes, hooded and guarded, swung back her way for a moment. Then he glanced at Noah, and whatever he saw in her face made his cheeks colour slightly. His mouth thinned, then he dipped a piece of bread into his porridge, and chewed and swallowed it. “You have my permission,” he said to the two girls, “to return to your lodgings and collect what clothes remain to you. While you are there, you may tell your landlord that you shall not be returning, and that he may hire out his dismal cellar to some other desperates, if he so desires. Remind him that I have paid your rent until Michaelmas, so do not allow him to trick more coin out of you.”

  What coin? thought Elizabeth, but kept her eyes downcast so that Weyland should not see the expression in them.

  Weyland scraped out the last of his porridge with his spoon and fed it into his mouth. “You and Frances may take the first bedroom at the top of the stairs,” he said. “The bed is large enough for the two of you.”

  “And perfectly foul,” said Noah. “If Elizabeth and Frances are to live here—”

  He looked at her. “I will give you coin, Elizabeth,” he said, his eyes not leaving Noah’s face, “to purchase some new linens while you are out.”

  “And coin enough to buy a chest for their clothes, and candles and pewter to make the room livable,” said Noah. “And I’m sure they could do with some material to make some better clothes for themselves than what they own now.”

  Weyland stared at her, his eyes hard, then gave a curt nod.

  Everyone sat in silence for several minutes, Catling still playing with her wool, the imps staring about with their bright eyes, Jane and Noah making a show of eating some breakfast, and Elizabeth and Frances sitting tense and watchful, as if they were waiting only for a signal from Weyland before bolting out the door.

  Weyland sipped at his ale, ate a little more bread, and then spoke. “I have decided to discontinue our business activities,” he said. “All this whoring has ceased to amuse me.”

  “Then let Frances and myself return to our homes in Essex,” said Elizabeth.

  “Not yet,” said Weyland.

  Elizabeth shared a glance with Frances, opened her mouth, and then subsided. She had pushed fortune far enough for the day.

  “You will return from your outing today, Elizabeth,” said Weyland, his voice still low, fixing each of the girls in turn with a steady eye. “You and Frances both.”

  They did not reply, looking everywhere but at Weyland or his imps.

  “You will return,” he repeated, his tone even lower.

  Elizabeth was the first to drag her eyes back to him. “Yes,” she said, “we will return.”

  Weyland smiled. “Good.” His attention shifted to Jane. “Now, you may recall I said I had a duty for you this day.”

  He pushed his chair back suddenly, as if he was going to rise, and Jane flinched.

  Weyland’s mouth curved in a very small smile. “Once you have cleaned this kitchen, I want you to set off down to Whitehall, and visit with the king.”

  Everyone in the kitchen, imps and Catling included, looked at Weyland in astonishment. He grinned at their undivided attention, then winked at Noah, who was looking aghast.

  “He shall receive you,” Weyland continued, looking back to Jane. “Knowing Brutus, my love, he’s probably already smoothing the bed sheets in anticipation. No, wait…I forgot…he didn’t exactly fall into your bed in your last lives together, did he?”

  Jane’s face tightened. Weyland always instinctively knew the best barb for the occasion.

  And Brutus. What would he say when he saw her this way? Her face battered, her shoulders slumped with years of degradation…how could she face him? By the gods, once she’d been so powerful, so beautiful. He’d loved her, lusted for her. And now…to come before him in this state…

  Jane realised Weyland was staring at her, and by the satisfaction apparent in his eyes she knew he understood her humiliation.

  “You will go before the king, before magnificent Charles, before resurgent Brutus, and you will give him three messages.”

  He waited, and after a moment Jane dipped her head stiffly in acceptance.

  “Good. First you may offer Brutus my hearty congratulations on regaining the throne. He must be very pleased. You will say this to him.”

  Jane jerked her head in assent again.

  “Second, you shall tell him this: Do not think to attempt to locate the bands, fool, for I have Noah, and I will do to her what I have done to she who stands before you should you try to find your damned kingship bands. Do you understand?”

  Again Jane gave a single jerk of her head.

  “He is not to attempt to find those bands, for then I will slaughter Noah—not kill her, you understand, but steep her in such misery and humiliation and degradation, that she will wish herself dead. I will do to her what I have done to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes! I understand.”

  “There is a third message. Tell the fool this also: If you go near the forests, king, if you so much as eye a single tree, or step within its shade, I will make sure that Noah suffers for an eternity. If he stays away from both the bands of Troy, and the forests, then I will keep Noah well.”

  Jane glanced at Noah. He knows. He knows about the Stag God—

  Silence! Noah all but shouted in her mind. Not here!

  A slow grin lifted the corners of Weyland’s mouth, and he looked between Jane and Noah. “This is going to be a most pleasant day,” he said. “I do wish I could be a fly on the audience chamber’s walls. Or do you think Brutus shall receive you in his privy, Jane? It’s the only proper place for you, don’t you think?”

  Jane hung her head, and her swollen eye stung miserably as a tear squeezed its way out. Then she flinched as Weyland leaned over the table and wiped it away.

  “Remember all I have said, Jane. Oh, and enjoy the day. You don’t get out much.”

  Fifteen

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Jane walked up Idol Lane. She had neatened herself as much as possible—although the state of her face (swollen, bruised, scabbed, black-eyed) meant that she was a sorry sight indeed.

  A youth passing glanced at her, and then hurried on, not quite managing to stifle his snigger and Jane coloured as she turned down Little Tower Street and then eventually down an alley running parallel with Cheapside.

  Oh gods, that once she had walked this way when she had been beautiful and powerful, and all who had passed her had bowed in respect.

  Now, here she walked, a bedraggled, humiliated prostitute, off to visit Brutus.

  A king.

  How would he regard her? With pity? Revulsion? Surely not with respect.

  A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Jane. Were Ecub and Erith there as well? Would they smile in satisfaction, and send cruel barbs her way?

  Jane force
d herself to think of Noah to take her mind away from how Ecub and Erith, not to mention Brutus, might treat her. She’d meant what she said to Noah the previous night; Ariadne should not have been able to pull Noah to her side with the power that she used. Noah was not a trained Mistress of the Labyrinth, so that meant only one thing.

  She must have it bred within her. Gods, how had that come about?

  Jane crossed into the square about St Paul’s and, without a glance at the cathedral, walked down towards Ludgate and Fleet Street. She felt numb. Jane’s one remaining piece of pride had been in her ability to deny or grant Noah powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth as she, Jane, chose. If you want me to teach you the craft of the Mistress of the Labyrinth, then do this, or be that, or grant me this wish.

  Now even that was taken away from her.

  Even Noah didn’t need her any more. Sooner or later Noah was going to realise that she barely needed to snap her fingers to assume the powers of Mistress.

  But why? Why? And how long had Noah been carrying this potential? Had she, even as Cornelia, been harbouring the power of the labyrinth?

  How? How?

  Jane was walking past Charing Cross and her steps slowed. It was now but a short walk to her total mortification. She made the effort to straighten her spine, square her shoulders and bring her emotions under some kind of control.

  Finally managing to attain some semblance of calm, Jane walked to the gates of Whitehall Palace. There was a crowd gathered composed of curiosity seekers and supplicants, and Jane had to shove her way through so that she could speak to the guards.

  And how was she going to argue her way past them? Impress them with her regal bearing, her pride, her damned, cursed power?

  “I am Jane Orr,” she said as she finally managed to stand before them. “I have come to present my respects to His Majesty, King Charles.”

  The four guards looked her up and down, glanced among themselves, and then, incredibly, one of them shrugged and opened the gate enough for her to slip through.

  “Follow me,” said another and, stupefied (had Weyland arranged this?), Jane trailed a pace or two behind the guard as he led her into the palace.

  Tears threatened again as she walked as softly as she was able through the palace. Never had she felt so shabby, so unworthy, as she did in this royal building. Everywhere was gilt, or marble, or rich, dark carved wood dressed with silk and velvet.

  Everyone she passed stopped and stared, their eyes round, their mouths open.

  Aghast.

  Jane stiffened more with each step, her head held unnaturally high, her eyes focussed straight ahead, wondering if some of those exquisitely clothed courtiers were even now sending for the servants, to wash and scrub the path where Jane had trod.

  What manner of king, they would be thinking, would want this in his presence?

  The guard led her into grander and grander apartments, until they reached a series of massive rooms that opened each into the other. It was, Jane realised, the end of her journey. Here the final approach to the king, through the series of waiting and audience rooms, where, in each succeeding chamber, the hopeful supplicant would be vetted by increasingly senior members of the king’s household, to be judged and either allowed to continue on the pilgrimage to the royal person, or to be cast aside, and asked to leave the palace forthwith.

  Here even more people stared at her: those waiting, or those already told their application to be received by the king had been unsuccessful. Here they stood or sat, watching as a tattered, thin, beaten prostitute was shown through chamber after chamber without any examination.

  Why oh why, Jane thought, couldn’t the guard have brought me to Charles via some unknown way, some servants’ passage?

  Then Jane realised that Charles had wanted this, had wanted her to suffer the ultimate humiliation.

  He’d wanted her to endure this open shame, this public crucifixion.

  He’d wanted her paraded through his palace as…what? Triumph on his part? Malice? Punishment? Entertainment?

  As the guard brought Jane to a halt outside the final doorway leading to the king’s private audience room, the royal parlour, Jane briefly closed her eyes. It had come to this, all the promises and ambitions and power of three thousand years before.

  Hatred, revenge, humiliation.

  “You may enter,” said the richly dressed man whom the guard had addressed. The man, probably the palace chamberlain, lifted an eyebrow at her, and pointedly stepped back…then pulled a snowy handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his nose.

  The doors swung open, and Jane, hating herself more than she thought humanly possible, entered.

  King Charles’ private audience room was smaller than Jane had initially expected.

  It was also dimmer, and she had to stop a few paces inside the doors and blink, trying to refocus her vision.

  There were only a few lamps burning which, combined with the fact that the heavy drapes at the windows had been pulled closed, meant the room was as dark as twilight.

  The chamber gradually came into focus. Its walls were hung with green damask silk, matching the drapes at the windows. The domed ceiling was ivory, and richly gilded. The accoutrements of power were everywhere: the gold glinting from ceiling and chairs and table tops; the richness of the Oriental carpets on the solid mahogany floors; the oil portraits of King Charles I and his queen, Henrietta Maria, as well as the current Charles’ grandfather, James I; the all-pervading sense of power in the room.

  It was that sense of power that brought Jane to her senses. She glanced about. There were two women standing almost hidden in the drapery by the window.

  There was a man—dark, tall, lithe—standing to one side of the dais. He had a hand on his sword, and his face was swathed in dark anger.

  Coel? she wondered, and her heart beat faster as she recalled that strange dream she’d had while unconscious after Weyland’s attack. She looked at the man again, wondering at the anger on his face.

  Finally, Jane looked to the dais. There were two thrones atop it, and Jane looked first to the queen.

  She was tiny, and dark, and sat sitting forward, her arm propped on the arm of the gilded throne, resting her delicate chin on one hand. She wore a speculative expression on her face, and Jane could see strength and determination there as well.

  Jane felt her mouth go dry. That was Matilda-reborn. Queen again, at Brutus’ side, and once more witness to Jane’s mortification.

  Finally, Jane looked at Brutus himself: Charles II of England.

  There was something “hidden” about him; Jane’s eyes were now accustomed to the dimness of the room, and she should have been able to make him out as clearly as she had Catharine, his queen.

  But much of Charles remained hidden. She could feel him, feel the power of the kingship bands about him (and yet even that was muted, as if also hiding behind some enchantment), but she could make out little else save for his overall height and the vast richness of his clothes.

  He made an expostulatory sound, as if Jane had somehow annoyed him, and rose.

  Scared almost to death, Jane sank to her knees—wishing she had thought to do this the instant she’d entered the chamber—and hung her head low.

  Perhaps this way he won’t see how terrified I am. How ashamed I am. How—

  “Jane,” he said, and she literally jumped at the kindness and gentleness in his voice.

  She shifted her eyes forward, and saw a pair of beautifully tooled scarlet leather boots.

  She lifted her gaze a little higher, and saw the fine cut of his silken and velvet breeches.

  Still higher, and Jane saw the richly brocaded and jewelled doublet he wore, saw the lace that cascaded from the cuffs of his sleeves, saw the gems on the fingers of his hands as they rested relaxed on his hips.

  Still higher, and she saw his face.

  And in that moment, as she heard herself gasp and as she heard everyone else in the room step forward and move to encircle her
, Jane was absolutely certain that she was a dead woman.

  She looked into the handsome face of Charles II, looked at his black curling hair, felt the aura of the golden bands of Troy emanate from his flesh, looked at the power in his dark eyes.

  Looked at the knowledge in them.

  And recognised him.

  “You’re not Brutus,” she said.

  Part Six

  THE FAERIE COURT

  London, 1939

  “B other!” said Frank as they drew up before the house. Piper’s car had come to a halt some ten feet before them, and around that car, as now also about Frank’s, were gathered what appeared to Skelton to be a few score of policemen with a couple of army officers thrown in for good measure.

  “Does the ‘Old Man’ always go in for such security?” Skelton asked dryly as he wound down his window and handed his military identification papers to the policeman standing there.

  “This isn’t for the Old Man,” said Frank. “Looks like the Boss has come as well.”

  Skelton almost screamed with frustration, and might have done so, save that just then the policeman handed him back his documents.

  “Very good, sir,” said the policeman. “If you’ll just follow me.”

  Skelton climbed out of the car, and looked around. There was a flight of stone steps leading up to the house’s portico. Weyland Orr already stood at the head of the stairs, several small house dogs fussing about his legs.

  He was grinning at Skelton, obviously enjoying the spectacle of the American being detained for a check of documentation while he, Asterion, was allowed straight through.

  Skelton jerked his cap straight on his head, gave his jacket a tug to pull out as many wrinkles as possible, and envied Weyland his easy sartorial elegance. He ran up the steps, his gait light and graceful, and brushed right past Weyland.

  Behind him he heard Frank and Piper mutter something as one of the waiting officers asked them to come around the back.

  Whatever was awaiting Weyland and Skelton inside, Frank and Piper would not be a part of it.