Darkwitch Rising (42 page)

Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the light, and, with Jane, looked about.

“We are in Tower Fields,” she said, her voice bewildered.

Indeed we were (my memory coming from my life as Caela rather than this life; the landscape, although
much built over, had not changed a great deal). We stood in the open space just beyond the northern walls and moat of the Tower of London. In the distance we could hear the roar of the crowds—somewhere further to the west Charles was still engaged in his jubilant parade.

“But
how
…?” Jane said.

“By my aid, of course,” said a voice—
that voice which had saved us
—and Jane and I let go of each other and whipped about.

A woman stood some four of five paces away, surveying us with a self-satisfied smile.

The style of her dress gave me pause, for I was not used to seeing women dressed in the ancient Minoan manner standing about in the grassy fields of London.

The woman wore a flounced skirt of red silk that fell to just above her ankles, stiffened with many layers of petticoats, and a jacket of cloth of gold, embroidered with yet more golden threads and pearls and jade. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, wide stiffened lapels and a collar, and lay open to her waist where it was loosely held together with scarlet ties. She wore no blouse beneath it, and the open lapels of the jacket revealed her bare, firm breasts.

She wore little jewellery save for a collection of thin golden bands about her right ankle and her left wrist.

Her face was stunning: finely boned, yet giving the impression of strength rather than fragility, the woman had a broad, high forehead, large and elongated dark eyes further emphasised with an outlining of kohl, gracefully arched and drawn eyebrows, and a full and sensuous mouth that was painted the same red as her skirt. Her skin was the same rich cream of her breasts.

A magnificent head of hair crowned all of this
bounty. Very dark, almost black, it rippled in bright waves down her back and shoulders.

If I had been a king I would have lusted for her, for she radiated power as well as beauty.

If I had been a common man I would have lived in terror of her, for I would have understood that this witch had the power to destroy my life.

I also knew precisely who she was.

“Ariadne,” I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage. “Well met, at last.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but just then Jane let out a shriek and darted for her foremother. Her arms were extended, her hands clenched into claws, and I have no doubt that she meant to murder Ariadne as soon as she reached her.

It was a sentiment I could understand, even as I winced. It was Ariadne, after all, who had cursed Genvissa-Swanne-Jane with her promise to Asterion that should she or any of her daughter-heirs ever try to resurrect the Game, then she (or whichever of her daughter-heirs bore her blood) would become Asterion’s slave.

Ariadne calmly held out a hand, turning it heel down, palm outwards, and said one single commanding word that emerged not as sound so much as a ripple of powerful emotion.

Jane stopped, so abruptly she collapsed into a heap two paces short of Ariadne. I stepped forward and aided her to rise. “Be still, Jane,” I whispered. “This is not the time.”

Then to Ariadne, who continued to regard us with a supreme equanimity that I envied, I said, “Are we here in reality, Ariadne, or in spirit?”

“In spirit only,” she said. “Your bodies still writhe about that dreadful kitchen floor. This was all I could do for you.”

“Why?” I said.

“You were in pain, and I did what I could to save you.” She gave a half shrug, the movement one of exquisite grace. “I can do nothing to the injuries perpetrated upon your physical bodies—by now, surely, you shall be virtually lifeless—but I could save your sanity.”

Now she looked at Jane. “I am sorry for what has happened, Jane. If not for my promise…”

“You have
no
idea of what I have suffered,” Jane hissed.

“Yes, you are right. I can have no idea. And so I shall do my best to set things to right.”

She paused, regarding us intently, then she smiled at me. The expression was cold, and predatory. “And well met to you as well…Eaving.”

I could not forget that Ariadne had once been the MagaLlan of Llangarlia as well as the Mistress of the Labyrinth, but I
was
put out by her knowledge of my goddess name. The surprise must have shown on my face, for her smile became genuinely amused.

“I have power, Eaving. I am not disinclined to use it to discover what I need.”

“What are you doing
here
?” I said, gesturing about at Tower Fields and the built-up areas to the east and west of us. “And like
this
.” Now I gestured at her clothes.

She laughed. “Oh, this is not the manner of dress I normally affect, Eaving. Generally I ensure I’m much less noticeable.”

“You mean you’re
living
here?” Jane said. “In
London
?”

“I drift in and out, from time to time,” Ariadne said. “I have an arrangement with the Gentleman of the Ordnance of the Tower.”

I could well imagine what kind of arrangement she might have, but I wondered if the Gentleman of the Ordnance of the Tower knew quite what he had
invited into his bed. And
why
should Ariadne want to be there? I opened my mouth to ask, but Jane got the question out first.

“Why are you back? For what purpose?”

Poor Jane. I imagine she was somewhat disturbed to discover that great-great-great-granny Ariadne had been flitting around not ten minutes walk from Idol Lane.

Again that fearsome, predatory smile. “For my place in the Game, of course, what else?”

I went cold. She couldn’t possibly think that she…

“You have no right—” Jane began.

“I have
every
right,” Ariadne said. “If not for me then neither of you would be toying with such greatness! If not for me, then neither of you would be—”

“Writhing about on a kitchen floor having our flesh torn apart,” I said.

“Well, well, minx,” said Ariadne, stepping closer to me and grasping my chin with one of her hands.

I could feel her fingernails digging into my flesh.

“Such spirit,” she said. “What is your heritage then, to spark so brightly? What was your name and heritage in your first life, before the Troy Game caught you in its web?”

Ah, if Ariadne could know my goddess name then surely she would know this. But for the moment I played along with her game.

“My name was Cornelia, and I lived in the city of Mesopotama, on the eastern side of—”

“I know where it was,” she said. Her hand fell away from my chin. “An insignificant city. Dull. Who were you, Cornelia of Mesopotama? A servant’s brat? A baker’s bastard? A—”

She was needling me, and most successfully. “I was the daughter of the king, Pandrasus, and heir to the throne itself.”

“Ah,” Ariadne said on a long breath, although it was obvious none of this came as any surprise to her. Then, “Mesopotama was spared the Catastrophe. Tell me, Cornelia-reborn, princess and heir to that long-lost throne, did you ever wonder why?”

Jane spoke then, and I was glad, for I had no answer to Ariadne.

“Aren’t you afraid that Asterion, Weyland Orr now, might find you wandering about the Tower, Ariadne?”

“The Liberty protects me,” she said.

“The Liberty?” I said.

“The Tower of London exists under its own jurisdiction,” said Jane. “It is free from the laws of London. This Liberty came into being after your last life, Noah. You would not have known of it as Caela.” Yet still Jane looked puzzled, for that alone could not explain how Ariadne managed to hide from Weyland’s sight.

“Indeed,” said Ariadne, “the fields and streets surrounding the Tower of London form their own jurisdiction. The Gentlemen of the Tower have even managed to claim all rights to the cattle and horses that fall off London Bridge, and the swans that wander into the Tower moat.” She laughed prettily.

“But none of this explains why Weyland can’t—” I began.

“
Think
, Eaving! What lies beneath the Tower?”

I frowned, then suddenly remembered. “The God Well!” It was where Brutus and I had been buried in our first lives, and where, as Caela, I had met William the night he had killed me.

“Aye,” said Ariadne. “It took some skill, of which I have a small measure, to manage to entwine the power of the God Well with the legal entity of the Tower Liberty to form a protective ward. So long as I don’t leave the Liberty, Weyland can’t detect me.”

I felt uncomfortable. As Eaving I should have sensed this, for Ariadne would have used her ancient knowledge of the land in this enterprise, and yet even I hadn’t felt a thing. For the first time I had a true understanding of Ariadne’s power.

“You will come back to me here,” said Ariadne, “once your bodies have healed.”

“Why?” said Jane.

“You know why,” said Ariadne. Then suddenly she paled, and wavered on her feet. “I cannot hold you any longer,” she said. “You must return now…but come back, come back in the flesh, come back to Tower Liberty…”

Her voice faded, and I saw the fields about the Tower waver and then vanish, and the next moment the terrible bloody stink of the kitchen of Idol Lane assailed my nostrils.

C
harles’ journey from London Bridge to his palace at Whitehall was a living nightmare. The procession took several hours to reach the palace precinct and, once there, Charles endured two further hours of speeches in both the House of Commons and the House of Lords.

Through it all he smiled and waved, and spoke pretty and gracious words. It had been the most difficult thing he had ever done in…well, in all three of his lives thus far. Noah’s pain had abruptly ceased when he was but a third of the way down Cheapside. Charles hoped it was because she had mercifully fainted.

Now, finally, at ten at night, he and Louis and Catharine had managed seclusion within the royal apartments. The instant the door closed behind the last servant Charles sank down into a chair, dropped his wearied face into his hands, and muttered, “Gods…”

Louis was standing on the far side of the sumptuous chamber. He watched Charles for a moment, then turned to a table, meaning to pour himself a glass of wine. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped the decanter, sending red wine spilling over the beautiful parquet floor.

He swore, the obscenity rolling across the room, and Catharine gave a single sob and sank to the floor by Charles’ chair.

“Is she dead?” she said.

“Is she dead?” Charles said. “I do not know. Louis?”

Louis had been trying to pick up the larger pieces of the glass. Now he dropped them again, and walked over to Charles and Catharine, wiping his fingers over his lovely silver doublet.

“No,” he said, “she is not dead. Weyland would not allow her that mercy. She is alive…just.”

“You must not blame yourself, Louis, for not—” Charles began.

“I blame those damned giants!” Louis yelled. “If not for them, if not for their cursed interfering—”

The door to the chamber opened, and Charles half rose, his face flushing as he prepared to shout at whichever servant had chosen this terrible moment to enter.

But it was no servant, and, as they saw who stood there, Charles swallowed his anger and walked over to where Marguerite and Kate stood just inside the door.

He embraced them fiercely, and then Catharine ran to them, and Marguerite and Kate enclosed her within their arms. Louis also came over, and in turn was hugged by the women.

“Oh,” said Marguerite, “that we should meet under such circumstances. Matilda, it is so good to see you once more, but—”

“You felt it too, then,” said Charles.

“Aye,” Marguerite said. “We were riding into London when we felt it. Gods, Noah—”

“But are
you
well?” asked Charles. “And the children?”

“We are well indeed,” said Marguerite, “if saddened by the day’s events.”

“The children do marvellously,” Kate finished. “They remain in Woburn village, Charles, with a kindly neighbour.”

Charles nodded. “When matters have settled, I shall send for them to attend court.”

“What this natter of children and babies?” said Louis. “We should instead be talking of—”

“Louis,” Marguerite said, “Noah knew that something of this nature was going to happen. She—”

“She had
no
idea that she would be torn apart, for what else could explain such pain?”

“She
needed
to be there,” Marguerite said. “She needs to learn the arts of Mistress of—”

“Right now,” said Louis, his voice dangerously soft, “I don’t give a fuck about Noah learning the arts of the Mistress of the Labyrinth. I just care that she lies in agony, and none of us do anything save stand here and mutter
useless
words!”

To that no one had anything else to say.

It took Elizabeth and Frances until nightfall to clean and settle Noah and Jane as well as they could, and then scrub the kitchen and themselves. As shocked and benumbed by events as they were, the two girls nonetheless managed to wash the two women, bind their terrible wounds with strips torn from a clean sheet, and move them to the pallets to one side of the kitchen.

They could do little else. Both women lay as if dead, their skin cold, clammy and grey, their breathing hardly discernible. Neither stirred as Elizabeth and Frances worked over them, and both continued to seep blood; to the girls it was remarkable that they were alive at all, and it did not seem possible that they would survive the night.

Once they’d done what they could for the women, the two girls set to the nauseating work of cleaning the kitchen. The women’s blood had jellified into several putrid masses and had set rock-hard in the
cracks and pockmarks of the flagstones so that it took back-breaking labour to scrub it out.

When the kitchen was finally clean, Elizabeth and Frances stripped themselves of their blood-soaked and wet clothes, and scrubbed themselves until their skin shone red and raw. Then, dressing themselves in some of Jane’s petticoats and chemises they found in a chest (what spare clothes they owned were resting unobtainable in their chamber in the nearby tavern), and throwing shawls about their shoulders, they lit a lamp against the growing darkness and sat down at the table.