The Witch (The Witch Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  The Witch

  By Cheryl Potter

  © Cheryl Potter 1996

  First published in Great Britain 1996

  by Robert Hale London

  The right of Cheryl Potter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Part 1: Terra

  He Comes ...

  It was the chosen evening, Kate knew. All day she had fought the tremor in her hands, denied the urge to scan the horizon – part of her knowing, the rest of her racked with unknowing.

  Jack had sensed her restlessness. His usual gentle handling of the ewes had been barbed with impatient nips. The dog now sat at the foot of the ladder, willing her to come down from the roof.

  Kate cursed herself for not fetching the short scaling ladder from the outhouse as she had intended. Like so much else today it had slipped from her mind. Forgetfulness had earned her grazed knuckles and elbows in an ungainly scramble to the ridge.

  She sat astride a half-round ridge tile and stared through a gaping hole into the room below. Five tiles had blown off and the old thatch beneath crumbled at her touch. She groaned inwardly. It was going to take more than a hessian sack to patch this one up. Still, it would have to do for now.

  Untying an old grain sack from her shoulders, she began teasing it under the tiles around the hole. A whine escaped Jack and he stretched his black and white body up the ladder.

  Kate sat bolt upright on the roof, the hessian left flapping in the breeze. Below, the fields rolled away to the Welsh border, the unseen mountains imagined through the blue haze. She turned to look over her left shoulder, towards Bristol, the ports and the boats....

  In her mind’s eye she saw a cargo ship. For a moment she seemed to be steadying herself on the swaying deck, staring high above the port to the hills beyond. The vision lasted a moment only, then a cold shudder brought her back to roof and Jack’s whines.

  With hasty stabs of her foot she pushed the sacking home then crawled backwards to the ladder, more than grateful to feel its solid rungs under her boots.

  Jack leapt up at her excitedly when she took her cloak and crook from the hook on the back of the kitchen door. A last look at the folds was unusual for August. Kate did not however reach the folds. She ran to Blackwood Top. There, commanding Jack to silence, she waited knee deep in bracken.

  She saw him through a bank of vermillion poppies. No more than a black dot at first, obscured and revealed by the dancing flowers. She watched the dot grow and take the shape of a man. He was tall and heavily built and carried no baggage, that much she could discern. As for the rest, the fading light connived to keep her ignorant.

  She held Jack by the scruff, knowing only too well his instinct to protect her. Heavy feet crushed a path through the bracken, ascending the hillside. Then stopped.

  He stood before her; a black figure, silhouetted against the night sky, the last of the sun’s rays blazing from behind his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve come a long way, Kate Gurney,’ he said. It was a voice she had never heard – a coarse voice with a foreign lilt, yet he used her name with all the familiarity of one coming home.

  She felt rather than heard Jack’s deep growl.

  ‘Hush you old fool! Your name sir?’

  ‘Ah Kate, you do not know?’

  ‘No, I cannot say that I do.’

  ‘Swear to it.’

  ‘By all that is holy, I swear I do not know you.’

  ‘A curious oath for one such as you,’ he said, moving closer.

  Kate flinched, acutely aware of the old wounds; chilled by the knowing in his voice.

  ‘Send the dog away,’ he whispered with undeniable authority. ‘I’ve come a long way.’

  ‘She hesitated before issuing the command and had to repeat it before Jack skulked into the shadows.

  ‘He will come if I call,’ she said, immediately feeling foolish. He gave a short burst of covering laughter before winding his knuckle in her sleeve and jerking her towards him.

  ‘And if you do, I will snap his neck like a twig. Now Kate, have a care. I have not come to harm you. You know that, why else are you here waiting for me?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Find me in yourself Kate. I am there. In the mind of the child ... and even now, though less often, in the mind of the woman. Why do you tremble?’

  Kate’s hand went to her forehead in confusion. How much did he know, this man? How could he know? It had happened so long ago. Twenty years ... more. She forced the memories, stark ugly memories, from her mind, feeling strangely exposed to him.

  ‘They have been talking about me,’ she blustered, feeling self-control melting. ‘What right‒’

  ‘Fight on Kate, you will not defeat me.’ His voice blended with the rustling of the aspens in the wood below. For a moment she wondered if he was there at all, this man, or merely the working of her imagination. But there was nothing imagined about the big hand which slid over her face. He laughed softly as she recoiled, then clapped the hand over hers and crushed her flat palm first against one heavily browed eye, then the other; over the fleshy nose and parted lips, heavy with saliva, to a stubbly chin.

  ‘Feel me Kate Gurney, that you might know me well.’

  She gasped with sudden pain as he released his grip on her hand. Her mind worked furiously, sifting through them all; the gossips, the self-righteous men, the stone-throwing children. Which of them had he spoken to? They all knew the ins and outs of Kate Gurney, damn them. What better sport than to sling mud at that strange who lived alone near Blackwood Top?

  ‘Damn them all!’ she spat, unaware that she had spoken her thoughts.

  ‘The good people of the town?’ he mocked. ‘Why so bitter Kate? Did they drive you away, or deny you a living?’

  ‘I wish they had. Least then I might have made a new life somewhere. A place where they might respect a creature for hard work, not scorn her for her name and rob her blind come shearing when there are fleeces to be sold.’

  ‘They fear you, Kate.’

  She laughed ironically, ‘They scorn me.’

  ‘You scorn yourself girl. You could have them at your feet.’ Again his voice melted into the rustling of leaves. Kate’s head began to swim and she was keenly aware of hunger.

  ‘I have little enough to offer, but you are welcome to eat at my cottage. After your journey,’ she said.

  ‘Not tonight ... I have work to do.’

  ‘You are leaving?’

  ‘Does that trouble you?’

  She stayed silent. She did not know his name, who he was, where he came from. He frightened her. Yet she wanted him to stay. This was the chosen evening, she knew.

  Later....

  Lying fully dressed on the hard inn bed, he stretched and smiled contentedly. She would do, he reflected. In fact, Kate Gurney was tailor made for his purposes. An outsider and younger than he had expected. The landlord had guessed at eight years when the mother was hanged, and that before Cromwell and his cronies. Talkative in his cups was mine host, a mine of information.

  She was in her thirties then, a good forty years younger than Mother Sutton and most of the others he had come across. Lacking in real resentment but he could remedy that. Oh yes, he could remedy that – virgin soil this one.

  Suddenly the door of the shabby room creaked ajar. Instinctively he reached for the knife in his boot. Polly, the taproom girl, sidled in with a knowing giggle. She locked the door and moved to the bedside.

  In one furious movement he grabbed a handful of her tousled hair and jerked the squealing servant to her knees.

  ‘Never walk in without knocking
again, do you hear?’ He pressed the flat of his blade against her pink cheek.

  Polly showered him with terrified nods. And from deep in his throat there came a rumbling laugh.

  The Absolution ...

  The tupping had not gone smoothly this year. Both of Kates’s veteran rams had died last winter leaving her no choice but to put first-year rams in with the ewes. She had given the young males free rein among the seasoned ewes before letting them loose on the yearlings. It had been a fumbling, long-winded business, needing more than a little encouragement from her. Now that each of her ladies was at last marked with a smudge of blue dye, she gave a sigh of relief.

  The work seemed to tax her strength more this year. The hurdles for making the folds seemed heavier; the trek to the wood to collect them, further; and the sheep themselves seemed just a little more awkward.

  That she, who had always prided herself on her strength and laughed off the petty ailments that drove other women to their sickbeds, should wheeze with the effort of turning a ewe, maddened Kate. She refused to give in to the aches that crept into her joints, knowing that once she did, there would be no turning back. It was a downhill slide into old age and the almshouse.

  Her day’s work done, and the last of the lambs extricated from the brambles, she tied a hurdle gate across the entrance to the fold. It had been an oppressively hot day, so humid that the red dress she wore still clung uncomfortably to her skin. Turning from the fold she decided against going straight to the cottage.

  Invigorated by the cool of early evening Jack romped after her, over the plank bridge and into the wood. He disappeared into the undergrowth as she picked her way between the trees, confident that he would find her again at the secluded lake a short way on.

  ‘No Jack, you wait there, least till I’m done. You’ll only stir up the mud.’ She laughed, forcing the dog’s hind quarters to the floor and gratefully kicked off her boots and stockings.

  Warm sunshine filtered through the mellow autumn leaves bathing her nakedness as she washed soiled dress and stockings in the water. Wringing them with strong hands, she tossed the clothes onto a rock and plunged into the clearer water further on.

  Kate rolled on to her back and stared up at the ribbons of pink-edged cloud. As always the water took away the heaviness of mind and body. Four whole days had come and gone since his coming; four days without a word from him to fill the hours of torment. The certainty that had planted her on Blackwood Top that night had begun to crumble. After all the anticipation it seemed that nothing had changed, except for the return of the nightmares.

  Now though, all anxiety drifted away. The water held her in its arms and she felt as light as a rolling cloud.

  She had floated into a twilight world, neither awake, nor asleep when Jack’s warning bark startled her. Sunset had come and gone unnoticed and as she swam back to her clothes, night was casting its shadows over the wood.

  ‘Where are you dog?’ she called, dragging herself on to springy grass. ‘Jack?’ She felt for the clothes and with an involuntary shiver shook the dress before stepping into it. It hung in wet creases about her. Pushing the stockings into her pocket, she thrust her feet into the boots and reached for her shepherding knife.

  A sudden movement in the undergrowth jerked her to attention. ‘Jack?’ she whispered.

  ‘He can’t hear you. He has gone hunting.’ The reply was as unexpected as the hand which, coming from behind, took the knife from her grip. Kate stifled a cry.

  ‘I thought you had gone,’ she said, her throat suddenly cracked dry. She forced herself to turn, sensing him close behind her. Yet when she looked he was several feet away, stooping by the water’s edge. He was staring at the moon’s reflection, his dark hair tied back.

  ‘You called me to you Kate.’

  She stared at sharply the defined profile, the deep forehead and jutting chin.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He turned his face towards her in silent contemplation, then drew himself to his full height and held out his hand.

  ‘Come.’

  From deep in the wood there came the shrill cry of a vixen. The cry of a will dominated, a cry of pain. Kate walked towards the outstretched hand. She rubbed her face against the warmth of its palm and folded into an unyielding embrace. A strange hand gripped the back of her head and guided her face inside the folds of jacket and unbuttoned shirt to the naked chest beneath; all warmth and powerful heartbeat.

  ‘I will make you strong Kate. I have power enough for both of us.’ The words wafted dreamlike over her. He held her so tightly that she was struggling to breathe. Her head throbbed with the pounding of both hearts. ‘We will repay evil for evil.’

  ‘Sweet Lord, what is happening?’ she yelped, summoning all her strength to pull her head free. Her eyes glittered up into his face as she strained against the bruising hold he kept on her waist.

  ‘Bitterness is in your heart, Kate. How many times have you wished damnation on your tormentors?’

  ‘’No,’ she groaned in anguish. ‘Not meant.’

  ‘Ah Kate, you know that it is so. The women who turn you from their door – the witch’s bastard, they call you. The men who call you whore, yet slaver with lust. The priest who delights to condemn you from the pulpit, driving you from the church. The lord who rides his hounds through your folds and shoots your ewes should they stray on to his land.’

  ‘No!’ she choked. ‘No more. It is just punishment.’

  ‘For what, eh? The testimony of a confused and frightened child? Elizabeth Gurney ‒ your mother – stood condemned of witchery. She was lost before ever she came to trial.’

  Kate seemed to shrink into herself. She closed her eyes and turned her face from his.

  ‘With or without your evidence, she was doomed.’ His voice changed to a chilling imitation of the gossips. ‘She killed the old man, the Gurney woman. Crossed her he did, refused to buy her cloth. Vowed she would make him rue the day. You know, the loose one with a bastard.’

  He had uttered the last word with such relish that Kate clawed at his face, screaming with fury.

  He stood rock-like through her outburst, tightening the punishing grip on her waist, unmoving though she could feel broken skin and sticky blood under her nails. At last she flagged, her breath rasping in her throat, strength exhausted.

  ‘Damn them woman! Turn your hate on them, not on yourself. You poor fool, you did not kill your mother – it was them, all of them.’

  ‘She was strong, not me. She spat in their eye, even though they tortured her.’ Her face hardened. ‘Stuck her with pins, trussed her up and threw her in the river, kept her awake even when she begged for sleep. She scorned them all.’

  ‘She knew she would die.’

  A racking sob shuddered through Kate’s body. Her sides ached under the pressure of his hands.

  ‘They said I must save her soul. Only I could do it.’

  A hand seized her chin and forced her to look into the deep brown of his eyes. When he spoke his voice was deep with anger.

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘No, I cannot remember. Please‒’

  ‘Tell me now!’

  ‘I cannot‒’ Before the words were out of her mouth he grabbed her wet hair and pulled her backwards under the water. There had been no warning. No time to snatch air. Just a terrible weight across her pelvis. She reached down and tried to thrust his knee away but succeeded only in gulping water. She spluttered and the watery image of the moon was lost in a cloud of bubbles.

  He glanced casually across the water, counting the trees lining the lake, waiting for her kicking legs to weaken enough. It happened when he reached the thirty-ninth, an oak he supposed. He snatched her up, all bronchial splutters and greedy for air, and carried her to a fallen log.

  She lay face down for several minutes, choking away the water. He sat by her head, his face streaked with blood, his eyes set in an unseeing stare. At length she asked hoarsely, ‘Do you want my soul?’
/>
  He gave a short laugh. ‘Is it yours to barter?’

  ‘All my life I have harboured this ... guilt.’

  ‘And you play right into their hands; you did as a child; you do even now. Out your secret fears, those memories that worm into your power.’ He brushed his fingers over her cheek, gently caressing.

  ‘I have never spoken of such things before ... never. Am I then to tell you, who have no name?’

  ‘You have no choice Kate,’ he said bluntly. ‘I shall out this canker. It destroys the purity of your inheritance.’

  ‘Inheritance? What power do you speak of?’ An incredulous laugh escaped her. ‘For pity’s sake, I am no witch.’

  ‘But you are. You are the daughter of a true witch; her only daughter. Until now guilt has suppressed your talent. It was always there. How else did you come to be on Blackwood Top?’

  Kate fell silent. She had known he was coming just as she knew when a ewe would bear twins. As she sometimes knew the manner of a man’s death, years before the event. This much she shared with her mother. ‘You have the sight, child,’ she would say. ‘’Tis a rare gift, if troublesome.’ But if that made Kate a witch, she had never practised the craft.

  After the hanging of her mother Parson Ellson had taken her in. He had read to her from his treasured collection of woodcut pamphlets the lurid confessions of convicted witches; their pacts with the Evil One, the waxen effigies, the Sabbath dancing. For the good of her soul he had said, but she kept with her the vivid memory of the face that gloated most unpriest-like over the gruesome tortures and executions of those wretched women. She had secretly vowed to be as virtuous as goodwife Ellson herself.

  ‘Believe it,’ his voice cut across her thoughts, ‘there lies your strength.’

  ‘To be a witch is to be cursed!’ she whispered, rubbing her cheek against the grainy bark of the log. ‘My mother was murdered for it.’

  ‘She demands vengeance.’

  Kate closed her eyes and she was there, in the foetid cell at Gloucester gaol, her mother’s bewildered green eyes boring into hers.