The Witch’s Daughter
Read The Witch’s Daughter Online
Authors: Paula Brackston
For Simon, who knows what it took
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Elizabeth, Anne, Peter, and everyone at Thomas Dunne Books for their enthusiasm, attention to detail, and very welcome efforts in making
The Witch’s Daughter
the very best it could be. Thanks, also, to all at Snowbooks. Heartfelt gratitude to Becky Tope for her invaluable input and expert advice.
The Witch’s Daughter
would never have been completed without the unflagging support and forbearance of my family and friends, and I’d like to thank them all for their patience with me, and their understanding and encouragement during the long birth of this book.
Contents
Batchcombe, Wessex,
1628
Bess ran. The clear night sky and fat moon gave ample illumination for her flight. She feared the dawn, for with it would come the discovery of her absence, and then the hunt would begin. The fetters still fastened around her legs rattled against her anklebones with every stride, a single broken link on each all that remained of her chains. Metal rubbed through young skin until a thin slick of blood trailed in her wake. Her bare feet slapped through the shallow mud, retracing a route that was so familiar as to be imprinted on her mind, clearly mapped, allowing no false turns as she fled beyond the village boundary and ran toward the woodland. Still the short journey felt longer than it ever had, the trees seeming to recede before her, recoiling from her boiling panic, never coming nearer however hard she ran.
An illusion. Merely a trick of the moon shadows. I must not falter.
Her breath sounded loud in her ears, loud enough to wake a light sleeper in an outlying cottage, her heartbeat surely too thunderous to go unheard. She pressed on, at last reaching the cover of the first slender trees. The darkness in the copse was of a different nature. The early spring foliage admitted only fractured moonbeams, and roots and brambles clutched at her from both sides of the path. On she ran. She gasped as stones scraped her soles. She splashed through a brook, the chill water momentarily numbing her wounds before gritty earth from the forest floor forced its way deeper into the lacerations with every footfall. An owl screeched his disapproval of her presence. A badger drew his snout back into his sett, waiting for the disturbance to pass.
The freshness of the night air stung Bess’s throat. Even as it made her cough and fight for breath, she did not slow her pace; nor did she think to care, after so many hours in the stifling confines of her prison cell. Here at least was air to breathe. She crested a small hill and paused, steadying herself against the trunk of a great ash. She could taste the woodland on her tongue: the moss, the silver lichen, the rising sap of the trees. Beyond that, two more things clearly described themselves: her own fear and the sea. Both saltinesses spoke of terror and of freedom. She peered forward along the path and into the heart of the forest. That way lay escape from her captors. That way he would be waiting for her, horses ready, provisions, a plan, a destination to ride for. She pushed herself from the tree, summoning what strength she had left, but something held her back. Something inside her made her wait.
Consider
, it said,
consider the cost of that freedom.
A distant noise caused her to start. Hounds. They would be upon her in moments; she could not hesitate. Yet still that voice would not be silenced.
Consider,
it warned.
Mother? What should I do?
By way of an answer the night breeze carried the scent of the sea to her nostrils. From the village the baying of the dogs grew louder and was now accompanied by shouts. A movement in the darkness ahead caught her eye. She was sure now she could make out the silhouette of rider and horses. Those who hunted her would take her life, that she knew. But what price would she pay Gideon for her freedom?
No. I shall not go to him. I will not.
She turned and sped down the eastward path, away from the trees, away from the hungry hounds, and away from him. In moments she had broken free of the woods and was racing across springy turf, out in the open, heading toward the one choice left to her: the sea. She felt rather than heard him come after her. She dared not look back now. As she reached the cliff path, a watery sun raised itself above the horizon, bleeding bitter red into the sea. A flat, shadowless daylight replaced the night, leaving Bess exposed. At the cliff’s edge, she stopped. Looking toward the village, she could see torches spluttering in the grayness and make out featureless shapes moving rapidly nearer. Even above the hypnotic rasping of the waves on the rocks below, she could feel hoofbeats shuddering through the earth. Though he did not call out, she could hear his voice inside her head,
Bess! Bess! Bess!
Bess would not turn. To meet his gaze would be to lose her own will. Below her the high tide allowed no glimpse of sand, only deep water and bone-shattering limestone and flint. The sun climbed higher, so that when she lifted her eyes heavenward, it was to see an apocalyptic sky before she stepped forward into nothing.
My name is Elizabeth Anne Hawksmith, and my age is three hundred and eighty-four years. Each new settlement asks for a new journal, and so this
Book of Shadows
begins.
IMBOLG
FEBRUARY 2, 2007—FULL MOON
Awoke at dawn on my first morning at Willow Cottage to a heavy fall of snow. The landscape lay coyly clothed in ermine, waiting to reveal itself to me upon better acquaintance. The sky blushed briefly, lending a fleeting warmth. My bedroom window affords, as I had anticipated, an excellent view of the village of Matravers. Set on a small tump at the far end of the green, my little house is pleasingly separate from the cluster of thatched cottages and the short brick terrace that make up the center of the village. Also situated around the green, which boasts a chalk stream and duck pond, are a post office and small shop, a genteel coaching inn, and a bus stop from which children are taken to school and pensioners go to the weekly market in Pasbury. The church is at the other end of the green, set back and mostly obscured by impressive yews. The lane beyond the church gives access to the canal that runs west toward Pasbury. From the front of my house I have clear sight of anyone approaching, while the modest copse behind gives me seclusion. I can choose when to see and when to be seen.
I do my best to remain as invisible as my admittedly unusual appearance will allow. A woman on her own will always attract attention, particularly if she is in any way different. With this in mind, I keep my long hair tied back loosely and often wear a hat. My father used to say I had autumn hair and that this must have come about because of my September birth date. It is true, the color is a perfect match for that season—a blend of the burnished gleam of ripe chestnuts and highlights of oak leaves turned copper by the falling of the year. In itself such color, even coupled with my hair’s exceptional length, would not provoke curiosity. It is the way such deep tones contrast with the broad white streak that runs from the right side of my brow that causes people to look again. This is not some silvery mark of maturity but a snow-pure swathe, an icy sweep, as though the Goddess of Winter has touched me and left her mark. Indeed, I wish that the origin of the feature were so harmless. The truth is so much darker.
I am also tall and, despite my great age, remain vigorous and strong, my outward appearance suggesting I might perhaps be fifty, no more. I dress for comfort, practicality, and so as not to draw attention to myself. These days fashion can be adapted to suit the caprice of any woman, it seems, so that my long skirts, my liking for rich colors and fabrics, and my favorite garments collected over many years of roaming this earth can all be worn without appearing anything more than a little eccentric.
The cottage will, I am confident, serve my needs well, after small alterations. I plan to create a path from the back door directly to the stream, which runs through the willows that give the place its name. The holly hedge on the front boundary needs additional planting, and I must find space for elder, birch, and rowan when the time is right. The garden must be completely dug over, and something will have to be done about the lack of shade to the west of the house. It is perfect for an herbary, but it is a large space and anything else placed there will surely scorch. The house must stay as it is for now unless intemperate weather prevents me from working outside. If there is a clear sky for the moon tonight, I will pace out my kitchen garden and mark it with hazel sticks. I might even venture for a night walk, though I doubt I shall go as far as the edge of the great woods that lie on the horizon behind the house. They beckon, but I am not ready to go there yet. They are of another time.
It is easy on a shining day such as this, when all is newness and future, to forget for whole moments the past. As if it cannot cast its shadow on the taintless snow. Imbolg is my favorite time of year to find a new home, signifying as it does looking forward to rebirth and renewal. But I cannot afford to become complacent. I must not allow myself to drop my guard. These picturesque surroundings are certainly benign, as I predict most of my new neighbors will prove to be. The danger, as always, will come from afar. It does not lie in wait but follows me. I can never let myself be made vulnerable by the illusion of safety.
FEBRUARY 6, 2007—MOON IN THIRD QUARTER
Snow still cloaks the valley, though it has been corrupted now. A trail left by the belly of a badger shows my back garden to be part of a run. I will have to talk him out of digging up my young plants come Ostara. The lane beyond my front gate is black once more, and the village itself is a mess of brown gardens and gray, lumpen effigies the children have abandoned. Cautious pedestrians have worn the pavements to slithers of icy water and dense patches of shrunken snow. All are temporarily afflicted by a curious gait. Each stride falls short of their expectations as it crumps into a shriveled drift or stretches muscles uncomfortably as feet slide through the slush. They have all been much too busy with the weather to bother me.
I have begun work in the garden, but the ground is horribly affected by the receding snow. Aside from planning and some preparatory clearing, there is little I can usefully do. This has forced me to turn my attentions to the house itself. The rooms are curiously small and boxy, two at the front and two at the back, downstairs and up, giving the appearance from the front of a dolls’ house, with windows squarely positioned on either side of the door. I dislike the way the entrance opens onto the bottom of the stairs, but there is little I can do about it. The structural alterations required to change it would mean employing builders, and having strangers in the house for many weeks would be too great a price to pay.
The room at the front will be perfectly adequate for my sitting room, though I will rarely use it. The dining room I can utilize for drying plants and storing herb oils and pillows. It is in the kitchen that my most serious work will take place. I spent time there today, considering the best places to store my potions and unctions. The room boasts an excellent solid fuel stove, a quarry tiled floor, and west-facing French windows giving on to the garden. I lit the stove, taking a moment to burn a sage bundle and bless the space with its pungent smoke. As I stood, eyes closed, enjoying the stillness and promise of my new home, I became aware of a light scratching noise. The hairs at the nape of my neck began to rise, and I had the sensation of a caterpillar wriggling its way down my spine. I opened my eyes and looked in the direction of the noise. I need not have been alarmed. At the window a yellow-necked wood mouse was nibbling at the frame. I undid the latch.